


Again I Go Unnoticed

by Sam4265



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clark Kent/Lana Lang (mentioned) - Freeform, Growing Up Together, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 42,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam4265/pseuds/Sam4265
Summary: Bruce Wayne moved to Smallville when he was eight years old, beginning a friendship with Clark Kent that would come to define the world. But for now they’re just teenagers in love with all the wrong people, running in circles until they finally find their way to each other.——Art by the incredibly talented TKodami





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the Dashboard Confessional song.
> 
> The beyond amazing [art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424548) for this fic was done by the incredibly talented [TKodami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/pseuds/TKodami)
> 
> Her art is incredible and she is the most amazing artist ever I swear. Go look at everything she's ever done, you won't be disappointed.

There were a lot of things that made a typical Sunday in Smallville. The town Catholics made their way to church at approximately eleven o’clock on the dot. Mrs. Dayton opened the town diner four hours later than she did the rest of the week, just in time for the after-church lunch rush. Lex Luthor rolled into waking sometime after the lunch rush, but didn’t leave his room until almost two. Lana Lang went outside to practice her cheer routine, at the same time Chloe Sullivan ran through one last copy edit of the Monday edition of the Smallville Torch. However, above all, what really made a Sunday in Smallville was Bruce Wayne laying on Clark Kent’s bed, diligently waiting for Clark to finish the homework Bruce had done on Friday. 

“Have you finished _Macbeth_ yet?” Clark asked, idly flipping through the worn pages of a library copy. Bruce nodded, not looking up from one of Clark’s old his comic books.

“I finished it weeks ago. Tom Olsen told me there’d be a Shakespeare project at the end of this unit, so I wanted to give myself time to go back over all of them.” 

This was unsurprising, for while a typical Sunday consisted of Smallville’s Finest spending the day together, a typical weekend for Bruce Wayne consisted of a carefully maintained mix of study and martial arts training. 

“Really? You want to be partners?” Clark asked. Bruce snorted.

“Like that’s even a question.” Bruce and Clark were by far the smartest people in their grade, probably in the whole school, and possibly even in the whole town. Fortunately or not they were still young, which meant that Bruce didn’t tell anyone but Clark how well he did, and Clark didn’t let himself match Bruce in excellence due to a possibly misguided effort to keep his heritage a secret. Regardless, they always partnered with each other; partially in an effort on Bruce’s part to keep lesser intellects from using his intelligence for their own gain, and partially because they were best friends and that’s just what best friends did. 

“Good. I still don’t understand _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Clark said. Bruce huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Smallville, I won’t let you fail.”

Clark smiled at him, and Bruce forced himself to look away, blush just beginning to stain his cheeks. Clark sat heavily at his desk with a sigh, glaring at his homework like it was going to eat him. He leaned his cheek against his fist, and let his eyes rove over his desk, where they landed on Friday’s copy of the Smallville Torch. Chloe had made sure he grabbed one before he left on Friday, and as soon as he’d read it he’d understood why.

“Hey did you see the Friday edition of the Torch? Apparently Lex Luthor’s moving into his dad’s mansion. Do you know him?” Clark asked. This was news to Bruce, who did, in fact, know Lex Luthor. They’d seen each other in passing at several of the many galas their blue blooded kind had held during Bruce’s childhood. Lex was a few years older than them, and Bruce had never particularly liked him so they hadn’t spoken much. Then Bruce’s parents had died and that had been the end of their interaction, especially once Alfred took Bruce to Smallville to get away from the pressures of the tabloids and Gotham high society. 

“Sort of, I haven’t seen him since I was seven,” Bruce said. 

“My dad hates the Luthors,” Clark replied, his voice distant like he was lost in the past.

“Knowing your dad that’s probably justified.” 

Clark crooked a smile at him, and Bruce fought back another blush. He went back to reading his comic. When he flipped through the last few pages to the end he sighed. He’d been in this same position so many times. He’d already been through all of Clark’s books, and was almost finished with all of his comics. They’d been friends for a long time, and yet Bruce continued to make the mistake of showing up at Clark’s house before he was done with his homework. 

“Will you hurry up? I’m tired of sitting here and I’ve read all your comics already,” he said. 

“Not the new issue of Captain America. I just got that one this Wednesday,” Clark shot back. He was busy trying to see how small he could fold a single sheet of notebook paper, so Bruce sighed a very loud and dramatic sigh. Clark looked sideways at him and rolled his eyes. 

“Fine, your royal highness. Just give me a minute,” he replied, tossing the folded paper aside so his eyes were once again focused on the work in front of him. 

The next few minutes were long and slow and silent, during which time Bruce stared at Clark’s shoulders, caught himself staring, looked away, and then looked back. This continued until Clark shut his book, and shoved everything back into his backpack. 

“Finally. I can’t believe you do all your homework on Sunday,” Bruce scoffed. Clark rolled his eyes. 

“And I can’t believe you do yours on Friday.”

“It keeps my weekends free.”

“Yeah, but what for? Everyone you hang out with on the weekends does their homework on Sunday, too.” 

“I find things to do,” Bruce shot back defensively. Clark rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, do you want to stay for dinner?” He asked. Bruce shrugged. 

“Sure, Alfred’s been in Gotham this past weekend anyway. He left a bunch of food for me, but your mom’s cooking is definitely better.” 

Clark grinned. 

“Awesome, I’ll let mom know.” Clark proceeded to shout down the stairs that Bruce was staying for dinner, and Martha shouted back that she’d already made a plate for him, and that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. 

“You’re mom’s the best,” Bruce smiled, sitting up on the bed. He crossed his legs under him and sat back to look at Clark. Despite how much Bruce tried to bury his feelings, Clark was handsome, and he couldn’t help that little flare of heat in his stomach every time he looked at him properly. Clark was tall, several inches taller than Bruce. His arms were thick and corded with farm hand muscle, and his hair was just as black as his eyes were blue. They stood out starkly from his sun tanned face. He was a home grown, corn fed, midwest, all-American boy. He was exactly the opposite of everyone Bruce grew up with and that just made him all the more attractive. Bruce had developed a crush on Clark soon after meeting him, back when they were only eight years old. It was nothing really, just a passing thought about first kisses and what if they were with this boy instead of that girl? It wasn’t really until their freshman year of high school, when Bruce came back from a summer in Gotham to see Clark had hit puberty like a bullet, that he really fell hard. All of a sudden Clark had grown into his big hands and feet, which before had just made him clumsy. His face slowly lost it’s baby fat and began to define itself with strong manly features. Bruce had grown differently. He’d gone through puberty while training extensively in martial arts so he’d grown straight up, and just gotten slimmer and more defined. His face had grown sharp, cheekbones high and cheeks hollow, just the same as his mother’s, the same as most aristocrats. His eyes were a darker blue than Clark’s, but his hair was just as black. His skin was much paler, with less time spent outside, and a genetic propensity for fairer tones. 

He liked Clark’s changed appearance better. 

“Yeah, I know.” Clark grinned.

“The last time I brought her pot roast leftovers home I swear Alfred almost cried,” Bruce smiled as Clark snorted a laugh. 

“Yeah, she-” he was cut off as his phone began to ring. He picked it up off his desk and flipped it open to answer.

“Hello? Oh, hey Lana! What? Oh, yeah sure, of course I can. No, I’m not busy, don’t worry about it. I’ll be right over. Ok, great, bye.” He hung up the phone and flashed Bruce a giant, gut-wrenching grin. 

“Lana’s sink is leaking,” he said in such a dumbstruck way you’d almost believe she’d just confessed her undying love for him. 

“Great, and let me guess, she wants you to fix it and you’re going over there right now to help her because you’re whipped, and have little to no self respect?” Bruce groused. His tone was light hearted, but his heart was clenched tight in his chest, and there was fire in the pit of his stomach. He was jealous. He’d been waiting hours for Clark to be free for the day, and here Lana was stealing his Clark time right out from under him for no more than a leaky sink. He hid it behind a sardonic smirk, and forced himself not to grimace at the delight in Clark’s eyes as he rolled them in an amused circle. 

“Yes, exactly that. I’ll be late for dinner, but feel free to stay. Ma’s always willing to feed you.” 

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” Bruce smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It had been happening more and more often; Clark leaving him high and dry when Lana came calling. Clark was in puppy love, and maybe Bruce would find it more adorable if he wasn’t so jealous. 

“Cool, okay, I’ll see you later,” Clark said, and he threw on his jacket and rushed out the door. Bruce followed more slowly down the stairs, and arrived in the living room just in time to hear the front door slam. He frowned at it, watching as the curtains that hung over the window swayed with the force of the door. He didn’t want to be petty, but now his whole Sunday was disrupted. The thing that truly made a Smallville Sunday was the two of them spending the day together. Now Bruce had about five hours left in the day, Clarkless. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

“I’m assuming Lana called?” Martha Kent asked as she came up behind Bruce. She walked past him and towards the kitchen, where something spiced and fragrant was steaming on the stove. Bruce sighed. 

“How could you tell?” He asked. He shuffled forward and plopped into one of the kitchen stools. 

“Because the only time he ever leaves the house while you’re here is when she calls.” 

It was a more polite way of saying Clark prioritised Lana over Bruce, but just barely. 

“I suppose so,” Bruce muttered staring down at his hands. The backs of them were soft, a near flawless white free of blemishes and scars, but his palms betrayed the calluses that came from years of specialized activity. 

“Oh, don’t worry dear, he’s just a love-struck teenager over-compensating for his first crush. He’ll get over her eventually. Who knows? Maybe one day he’ll fall in love with someone that will make him forget all about Lana Lang,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that Bruce strategically did not notice. 

She spooned out a plate of what looked like beef stew for the both of them, and set them both down on the table.

“Mr. Kent isn’t joining us?” Bruce asked as she put his plate down in front of him. 

“Oh, no. He got stuck doing work in town; he won’t be back until later. There’s no reason for us to wait, though. It’ll only get cold,” she smiled at Bruce, and he was reminded suddenly of his mother. They didn’t look alike. Martha had red hair and a wider face, while his mother had his same narrowness and jet black hair, but there was something in the eyes, a kind of motherly kindness that Bruce hadn’t experienced since his mother died. He’d started coming to the Kent’s house because he’d made friends with Clark, but he’d stayed because they’d made him their family. 

Bruce smiled back at her. “Thanks,” he said. She only nodded, a knowing look in her eyes, and went to sit next to him.

“So, how’s school going? You still top of the class?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bruce’s cheeks pinked with embarrassment. “I am. Clark always seems to be gaining on me, but, no, I’m still on the valedictorian track. I got a hundred on my last math test. Mr. Milton really seems to hate giving hundreds. He keeps trying to find the tiniest things wrong with my tests to keep me from messing up the curve. He once tried to take a point off because I spelled a name wrong in one of my long answer questions, and he claimed that meant it wasn’t the answer for the question.”

“Tried?”

“Yeah, I went to the head of the math department, and he got it fixed for me. I think Mr. Milton just hates me more now.” Bruce shrugged, unconcerned, and Martha laughed into her stew. 

“Gosh, I remember Mr. Milton. He was crabby even when I was in high school. I can’t believe he’s still teaching. How old is he? He must be nearing a hundred,” she mused. Bruce choked on his stew as he laughed. 

The rest of the dinner went by quickly. They always had something to talk about, mostly Clark and what trouble he’d gotten into at school. Trouble that he tried relentlessly to keep secret from his mother. Little did he know that her seemingly omniscient knowledge of his teenage screw ups was due to Bruce being an incessant gossip. 

Eventually the front door swung open, and Bruce had to mask his disappointment when it was Jonathan Kent who walked inside, and not Clark. 

“Hi, Mr. Kent.” Bruce gave a little wave from his seat. Martha stood up and kissed her husband hello, before going back to the stove to make him up a plate of stew. 

“Oh, hi Bruce, good to see you. Is Clark not here?” He asked. Bruce shook his head.

“Lana called. Her sink’s leaking.” 

Jonathan snorted. 

“That boy could use a lesson in restraint,” he said. Bruce smiled into his stew. 

Jonathan took his plate from Martha with a quick “thank you,” and sat down in front of her. 

“How was your day?” Martha asked, and Jonathan sighed. 

“Not great. I was helping Murphy Nichols fix a broken shelf at the store, and the Luthor’s butler came in. He said he needed new flower arrangements for the mansion, since Lex is coming back to town tomorrow.” 

Bruce looked up. 

“Lex really is coming to town?” He asked. Jonathan nodded. 

“Yeah, he’s going to be living in the mansion, and I assume he’ll be working for the company branch here in Smallville.” 

Bruce let himself fall out of the conversation as Martha asked more questions about the town general store, and oh how _was_ Murphy these days? Instead he thought about what Clark had said earlier about Lex. It seemed Lex Luthor really was coming to town. Bruce didn’t really remember much about him. He’d been relatively quiet, especially after his accident. The accident in Smallville that had caused him to lose all his bright red hair, and the Luthors to move back to Metropolis. Bruce didn’t really know what had caused it, but then again Lex hadn’t really peaked his radar much when they were younger. There had been plenty of gala’s where they’d been seated next to each other in an effort to give them someone closer to their age to talk to, only Lex had been nearing double digits, and still thought of Bruce as a bit of a baby. He’d been nice enough, but mostly they’d kept to themselves. 

If Lex was going to be coming to Smallville then Bruce wanted to be prepared when he showed up. He might not remember much about the Luthors, but Jonathan Kent, who liked everybody, didn’t like them, and that was enough for Bruce to be suspicious. 

Clark still hadn’t returned from Lana’s when Bruce finally had to leave. 

\----

The next morning Bruce pulled up to the Kent house in his sleek black convertible just as the bus was pulling away. Mere minutes later, Clark ran out of the house, watching forlornly as the bus chugged along out of sight. Bruce grinned at him as he opened Bruce’s passenger side door. 

“I really don’t know what you used to do before I got a car,” Bruce said. Clark sighed. 

“God knows,” he grumbled. Bruce snorted, and shifted the car into gear. 

“So I read up on the Luthor’s last night,” he said apropos of nothing as they began to speed down the road. 

“Really?” Clark asked, almost like he’d forgotten about it. Seeing Lana did that to him.

“Yeah. I can see why your dad hates them, they tend to buy good farm land and put environmentally dubious factories on it. And they have a bit of a firing people for seemingly no reason problem, but according to various business publications Lex Luthor aims to fix all that bad press. I guess we’ll see, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Clark replied absently. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Bruce asked, more hurt than he allowed himself to acknowledge. 

“Yeah, of course I am,” Clark said, coming back to himself. 

“You’re thinking about Lana, aren’t you?” 

“What? No.”  
“All right, let’s get this over with, just tell me. What all happened last night?” Bruce asked, preparing himself for the worst. Clark smiled. 

“Nothing much,” he said. 

“Yeah, I can tell by the smile,” Bruce said dryly. Clark rolled his eyes. 

“Well I fixed her sink, some bolts just needed tightening, and then we talked.”

“Oh yeah? What about?” 

“Not much, homecoming mostly. She’s going with Whitney, and she’s running for homecoming queen.” 

“Oh, what a surprise. The most popular girl in school is running for homecoming queen. I wonder if she’ll win?” Bruce’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and Clark shot him a glare from the passenger’s seat. Bruce rolled his eyes. 

“Look, all I’m saying is you better not get your hopes up or anything. I don’t care that you managed to somehow get within five feet of her, she has a boyfriend, and she’s a shoe in for homecoming queen. You are neither of those things.” 

Clark frowned. Bruce felt badly about being so blunt, but brutally honest was one of his foremost personality traits. 

“I’m sorry, Clark,” Bruce sighed. He was sorry. He was jealous, yes, but that didn’t stop him from wanting Clark to be happy. 

“It’s fine. I know you’re right. Doesn’t mean I can’t dream, right?” 

Clark Kent, ever the dreamer. 

Bruce smiled softly, “Yeah, sure. Doesn’t mean you can’t dream.” 

\----

Thanks to Bruce they managed to arrive at school just after the bus, which meant that they managed to come right up on Chloe and Pete as they walked through the school gates.

“There you are! Honestly Clark, if you moved any slower you’d be extinct,” Chloe grinned. Pete rolled his eyes, but she ignored him. 

“Ignore her, Clark, and don’t forget we have to hand in these permission slips before homeroom,” he said. 

“Permission slips?” Bruce raised one perfectly arched black eyebrow. It was rare that he didn’t know what Clark was up to. 

“Yeah, for the football team. We’re going to play for the Smallville Crows!” Pete grinned, holding up his hand for a high five. 

“The football team?” Bruce asked, like it was a stain on his crisp white collar, hidden just so beneath a black cashmere sweater. 

“I’m with Bruce, you guys are trying out for the football team? What is this some sort of teen suicide pact?” Chloe asked, just holding back from full on laughter. Clark grimaced. 

“Actually, Pete, I don’t think trying out for the football team is such a good idea,” he said.

“Come on Clark, this is the only way.” 

Bruce sighed, understanding all at once what the issue was. 

“The only way for what?” Chloe asked. Pete frowned, and pulled her aside to a quieter part of campus.

“We’re trying to avoid becoming this year’s scarecrow,” Pete whispered, a seriousness in his voice that Bruce rarely heard coming from him. Bruce still rolled his eyes. 

“What are you talking about?” Chloe asked, exasperated. Pete sighed. 

“It’s a homecoming tradition. Every year before the big game the football players pick a student, take him off to Reilly Field, strip him down to his boxers, and then paint an “S” on his chest,” Pete said. Chloe looked disgusted. 

“And then they string him up like a scarecrow,” Clark added. 

“Jeez, this sounds like years of therapy waiting to happen,” Chloe said, wrinkling her nose. 

“It is. It’s a stupid and ridiculous tradition, and if either of them had any sense they’d let go of the idea all together and stay _off_ of the football teams radar,” Bruce chastised.

“Bruce, why do you think we’re trying out for the team? We figure they won’t choose one of their own.”

“Pete, that’s stupid. What happens if you make a fool of yourself, don’t make the team, and they target you because they’ve now figured out your an idiot?” Bruce asked. Pete stared at him, mouth agape, as Chloe choked on a laugh. 

“I’m going to make the team,” Pete said, his only defense. Bruce rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever you say. What about you, Clark? Are you as confident as the newest member of the Smallville Crows here?” Bruce asked, gesturing to Pete. 

“No, I’m sorry Pete, I’m not going to try out,” Clark apologized. 

“What? Why not?” Pete asked. He looked more disappointed than angry. Bruce guessed that he didn’t want to be doing this on his own. It’s hard enough to try out for a sport in which you have little to no discernible talent with an equally unqualified friend, much less on your own. 

“I’m sorry Pete, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Bruce is right, it would probably just ensure one of us gets picked as the next scarecrow.” He clapped Pete on the shoulder in silent apology, when something caught his eye, and he turned. Bruce turned with him to see Lana Lang standing next to the front steps, laughing with some of her friends. Bruce swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

“Hey, guys, I’ll see you later,” Clark said, his mind already moving on to Lana. 

“Okay, see you,” Chloe said. Bruce watched him go. 

“I bet he doesn’t make it ten feet,” Pete said. Bruce shook his head. 

“Five,” he said. The three of them watched, and Chloe counted down until Clark was five feet from Lana, and he tripped over his own feet, sending his books sprawling to the ground. Lana bent to help pick them up, and Bruce looked away.

“See?” He said. “Five feet.” Pete handed him a five, and Bruce walked off. Chloe followed closely behind him, while Pete went to drop off his football permission slip. 

“Hey, are you all right?” Chloe asked. Bruce shrugged.

“Yeah, of course, why do you ask?” 

“Because you’re Clark Kent heart eyes are showing,” she snarked. Bruce shot her a glare. 

“I don’t make heart eyes at him,” he argued. 

“Yes, you absolutely do, but don’t worry, he doesn’t notice.” 

Bruce frowned, his heart in a vice. 

“I know he doesn’t notice. That’s part of the problem. The only person he ever notices is Lana Lang. Last night he invited me to stay for dinner, and then left before the food was even ready because Lana had a leaky sink,” Bruce grumbled. Chloe’s eyebrows twitched together sympathetically. 

“I know, I’m sorry Bruce. If it’s any consolation, I had a crush on him too when I first got here, and he never noticed me either.” 

Bruce smiled at her. 

“It does kind of help. I guess that makes us the Clark Kent hopeless, huh?” He asked. Chloe giggled. 

“I guess so. I could make t-shirts?” 

“You know,” Bruce began, “I bet he wouldn’t even notice them.” 

Chloe giggled and they headed off to home room.

\----

Bruce didn’t see Clark again until third period english. Mrs. Smith was writing a list of Shakespeare’s plays on the board as they walked in. Bruce sat in the second row, in between Clark and Chloe. Pete, who flat out refused to sit that close to the board, sat behind Clark. He reasoned that if Mrs. Smith ever asked a question in class, he could just duck down behind Clark’s shoulders and she wouldn’t notice him. It wasn’t his worst idea. 

“I guess we really do have a Shakespeare project,” Clark sighed as Bruce sat down. 

“Yeah, but that’s what partners are for, right?” Bruce asked. Clark nodded. 

“Hey, Chloe,” Pete piped up from behind Clark. “Want to be partners?” He asked. Chloe shrugged.

“Sure,” she said. For all her talk about Clark not noticing her, it appeared to Bruce that she hadn’t noticed Pete’s crush on her either. Though, considering it was Chloe, it might just be that she was ignoring it in an effort to snap him out of it. 

Bruce was about to reaffirm that Clark was to be his partner, when the bell rang and class began. 

“All right class, we’re starting the Shakespeare unit today-” Before she could continue Lana stumbled into class, out of breath and missing her signature necklace. She had second period on the other side of the school, Bruce remembered hearing her complain about it. Mrs. Smith raised an eyebrow, and Lana quickly made her way to the only available seat left in class, the seat directly to Clark’s left.

“As I was saying, since Shakespeare has such a large selection of plays to choose from, you’re going to pair up, and each of you is going to get a different play to make a presentation on. You’re going to have about a month to do this project, and then we’ll have a week of presentations during which you’ll present your book to the class. On the board is a list of the plays to choose from. You’re going to pick partners, and then form a line. You can choose which play you’d like to do, but plays will be assigned on a first come first serve basis, so hurry up and pick your partners.” She gestured for them to go, and immediately Chloe stood up and made her way to Mrs. Smith’s desk. Pete shot out of his chair and hurried after her.

Bruce turned to Clark, but before he could even open his mouth, Lana Lang said, “Hey Clark, want to be partners?” 

And then, to make matters worse, Clark said, “Sure.”

Bruce was dumbstruck. They’d always been partners. In every class they’d had together since Bruce had moved to Smallville when he was eight years old they had partnered for projects. He didn’t know what to think. Clark clearly didn’t care, because he and Lana stood up and walked up to Mrs. Smith’s desk. Bruce was so surprised he didn’t even think about his own partner until Trevor Chapell sat down in the seat Clark had just so carelessly vacated. 

“I see Kent bailed on you,” he said. Bruce looked at him, eyes narrowing.   
“What’s it to you?” He asked. Trevor shrugged. 

“Whitney Fordman’s my best friend. I know what it’s like to be the third wheel around Lana Lang and the guy she’s stringing along.” 

Bruce frowned. He didn’t argue. Lana might not be purposefully stringing Clark along, but she was certainly doing so. She was dating Whitney, but calling Clark to fix her sink, and then talking with _him_ until late into the night. 

“Fine, so you get it. Am I supposed to sympathize with you or something?” Bruce asked icily. Trevor shrugged again. 

“I just figured since you’re out a partner, maybe we can be partners?” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. It was more than likely that Trevor was only asking Bruce because he was trying to mooch off of Bruce’s brilliance. If that was true, and it was very likely it was, then Bruce wanted nothing to do with him. He quickly scanned the room out of the corners of his eyes, and found that most everyone had paired up already, and those that were left were no more desirable than Trevor, maybe even less so. Bruce sighed, and, against his better judgement, nodded. 

“Fine, we can be partners, but I’m picking the play,” he demanded, in an effort to regain some of his higher ground. Trevor put his hands up. 

“Fine by me,” he said. He followed Bruce to Mrs. Smith’s desk where she had a list of the plays, and beside them the names of the group members covering them. Bruce had to swallow down nausea when he noticed that Clark and Lana’s names were pencilled in next to _Romeo and Juliet_. Lana’s choice then. 

Or maybe Clark was just being hopeful. 

The only options left were _The Taming of the Shrew_ and _Much Ado About Nothing_.

“We could do _The Taming of the Shrew_ ?” Trevor suggested, with a leer in Bruce’s bitter, bitter direction. Bruce shot him a glare so vicious that the leer dropped comedically from his face, and he looked away. Bruce wrote their names next to _Much Ado About Nothing_ without another word. When he was done he stepped aside so the last group could sign up, and turned to Trevor.

“We’re meeting Wednesday after school at four o’clock in the town library, it’s the only night I have free this week. If you’re late, or you don’t show up then I will do the entire project on Wednesday and I will make sure that Mrs. Smith knows you did absolutely nothing. Good luck staying on the football team with a zero on ten percent of your final english grade,” Bruce spat, vitriol lining every word. Trevor’s sense of humor was back. 

“Sure thing, Katherine,” he grinned. Bruce didn’t bother dignifying that with a response. The heel of his Allen Edmonds slamming down on Trevor’s toes was completely accidental, of course. 

\----

Bruce kept his mouth shut about the english groups during lunch, though the sympathetic glances Chloe kept shooting him told him she knew exactly how angry he was. Even Pete, who was usually oblivious to matters of the heart, could tell something was wrong, if the way he avoided eye contact with Bruce was any indication. 

Clark, as usual, didn’t notice. 

Bruce couldn’t last much longer. 

As soon as the car doors were shut Bruce turned to Clark, furious. 

“What the hell was that?” Bruce asked. Clark looked up at him, oblivious. 

“What was what?” 

“The english project! You asked me last night to be partners, and then today you leave me high and dry because Lana Lang couldn’t be bothered to find her usual gang of vapid henchwomen?” Bruce snapped. Clark stared at him, surprised. He technically had a right to be, Bruce usually kept his disdain for Lana Lang under a very tight lid.

“Bruce, this is my chance! We’re going to be working on the project all the time, for hours at a time! This is the perfect opportunity for her to get to know me, and then, once we’ve spent some time together, I can ask her to the homecoming dance.” Clark was so naive. It bothered Bruce a lot of the time. Clark had lived a very happy life in Smallville. He was the kind of homegrown that meant he’d never seen a cloudy day. He was a farm boy with farm boy manners, and not the slightest shred of worldliness. Bruce’s life had been different from day one. He’d grown up in what was possibly the worst city in America, and had spent his days surrounded by the most insipid people on the planet. He’d been to other countries, other states, and when he was eight years old he’d seen his parents murdered right before his eyes. It had fundamentally changed him. A child, not so innocent to begin with, had been broken completely, without any chance to turn back. Living in Smallville had healed him some, but the trauma of Gotham had settled deep within him, had turned him into the man he was fast becoming. A man who’d seen the world, and knew what kind of people lived in it. Clark might believe that Lana would give up Whitney, her popularity, her lifestyle, whatever obstacles stood in the way of the two of them together, if she just saw Clark for the man he was; irrefutably good. Bruce knew better. Bruce knew that no matter what Lana might look like, she was no angel. She was still human, and that meant that she could be cruel. He knew that the second Clark asked her to that dance she would break his heart. 

“She has a boyfriend, Clark,” Bruce protested. 

“I know, but it doesn’t matter. Once she sees me for me, she’ll see that I’m the one for her.” He looked so hopeful. Bruce had believe that too, once upon a time, but there Clark was, obsessing over Lana and accidentally proving himself wrong. 

Bruce swallowed hard, and looked away. 

“You’re my best friend, and you broke a promise to me. You hurt my feelings Clark,” he said bluntly. Clark frowned. 

“I’m sorry, Bruce, I never meant to-”

“I’ll get over it, but- I think I need to be alone right now,” he said. Clark nodded, and moved to leave. He still looked a little confused, but Bruce didn’t blame him. For all he knew Bruce was mad about a stupid school project that would last no longer than a month. He didn’t understand half of what Bruce felt, poor oblivious Clark. Bruce really had fallen for a bit of a moron. 

Clark stepped out of the car, but stopped before he left. He turned back to Bruce, and leaned down so Bruce could see his face. 

“I’m sorry Bruce, I really didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re my best friend. If you’re feeling up to it tonight, Ma’s making chicken pot pie, you’re welcome to come. Alfred too, if he’s hungry.” Clark turned around and left, shutting the door behind him. It took every ounce of willpower to keep Bruce from rolling down the window and calling him back, him and his incessant kindness. Instead Bruce shifted the car into reverse, and drove out of the parking lot alone.

\----

Bruce didn’t hear about the accident until he swallowed his pride and recruited Alfred to go to the Kent’s for dinner. Alfred quickly threw together two dozen fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, and together they drove over for dinner. 

Nothing seemed amiss until they got to the front door and found it locked. The Kents never locked their doors, not as long as Bruce had known them, not unless there was a very specific reason. Bruce exchanged a confused glance with Alfred, and knocked politely. Martha Kent answered, her hair in disarray, and worry lines running deep through her forehead. 

“Bruce?” She asked, clearly confused. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Kent. Clark invited me to dinner today after school,” Bruce said, more of a question than a statement. 

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe nobody called you. Come on, come in.” She gestured for them to come inside, and they both followed her into the house. 

“I’m sorry we’re just a little frazzled right now. There was an accident on the bridge. Clark was walking home, and Lex Luthor lost control of his car- he swerved off the bridge, barely missed Clark. Clark drove in after him of course. Jonathan’s furious,” she added the last part as an afterthought, but Bruce didn’t wait, he was already running into the living room looking for Clark. Guilt gripped his heart as fear took hold of him, a fear he had felt very few times before. Bruce Wayne had seen and done too much in his life to be afraid of most things, but the idea that Clark could be hurt, could have _died_ , all because Bruce had been too petty to give him a ride home sent ice cold fear shooting through his veins. 

Bruce turned the corner sharply into the living room. He found Clark sitting on the couch, a red blanket draped over his shoulders, and he was shaking his head at his father, who looked furious. 

“Really Dad, I’m fine, I promise,” he was saying. 

“Clark don’t be an idiot,” Bruce snapped, rushing over to him. He dropped down next to Clark on the couch, and took his face in his hands. He held up a finger in front of Clark’s eyes.

“Follow my finger, you better not have a concussion Clark Kent, I swear to god. Damn Lex Luthor to hell, I knew I didn’t like that asshole,” he snapped. Clark was laughing, grabbing Bruce’s hands in his own, and moving them away from his face. 

“Bruce, I promise, I’m fine. His car missed me, I just dove in to pull him out,” Clark said, he was still smiling. 

“You better wipe that smile off your face. I swear if you’re lying to me I’m going to be so pissed off you’re going to wish he did hit you with that car,” Bruce seethed. Clark snorted and shook his head. 

“I’m fine, Bruce.” 

Jonathan put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He too was smiling, finally. 

“He really is, son. I may be mad, but the EMT’s checked him out, he’s completely fine,” he said. Bruce pursed his lips, but finally nodded. 

“Fine,” he muttered. He stood up and turned to Martha, who was hiding a smile behind her hand. 

“Mrs. Kent, I was promised chicken pot pie. We brought cookies as compensation. Clark doesn’t get to have any.”

“Hey!” 

Bruce ignored him, and made his way to the kitchen. 

It turned out the chicken pot pies weren’t finished quite yet, so Alfred and Martha worked to finish throwing them together, and put them in the oven while Bruce and Clark set the table, and Jonathan made lemonade. Finally the pies were ready, and they all sat down to dinner. 

“So, tell me about your daring rescue of Smallville’s newest village idiot,” Bruce said as he dug into his pie. Jonathan snorted into his lemonade, spilling some on the table, and Martha frowned at him. Clark sighed. 

“Well I didn’t really see much, I was looking out at the river, but I heard the tires explode, and that’s when I turned. They told me later that it was a roll of barbed wire, that it had been lying in the street and he’d hit it which caused his tires to explode.”

“Don’t forget that he was texting while he was driving, which is why he didn’t see the wire in the first place,” Jonathan shot in. Clark nodded obligingly and Bruce swallowed a smile at Jonathan’s furious expression. 

“Right, he was texting so he didn’t see it, anyway, the tires exploded and he swerved, but he couldn’t control the car. I turned in time to get out of the way, but the car went straight through the barrier and into the river. I knew he wouldn’t be able to get out on his own, even if he was conscious, which he wasn’t, so I dove in after him. I dragged him out of the car, and performed CPR. Anyone would have done it.” He shrugged.

Bruce, despite his best efforts, was giving Clark a completely besotted look. This was why, despite how oblivious and naive Clark was on a good day, Bruce couldn’t get over him. Clark was just too _good_. He was a good man, through to his very core. He did things for people that no one else would even imagine doing, because that was just the way he was built. Bruce didn’t know what he would have done in the same circumstances, but he doubted he would’ve dove twenty feet into a river after a crashed car that had almost hit him. He would’ve called the police, sure, and he would’ve gone down to the lakeshore, but could he really say he would’ve done the same? He didn’t know, he’d never had to make that choice. But Clark had, and he’d done not just the right thing, but the best thing.

“Clark, you idiot,” Bruce smiled. “No one would’ve done it but you.”

Clark looked like he was going to argue, but Bruce cut him off. 

“Don’t you dare make light of this. You dove twenty feet into a river to rescue the asshole who almost hit you. Just accept it Clark, you’re a good person,” he insisted. Clark sighed. 

“I guess,” he said. Bruce rolled his eyes. Another problem with this man, he was too damn modest. God knew Bruce wasn’t. 

Dinner continued with laughter and good humor. Bruce was so glad to be a part of this makeshift family, he couldn’t put it into words. He was beyond grateful to Alfred for taking him to Smallville, even when he’d begged to stay in Gotham, to stay in his parent’s house. He’d needed out of there, he’d needed this, he’d needed family. 

When they were done eating Bruce and Clark stole half the container of Alfred’s cookies, and snuck out to the barn loft to glutton themselves unsupervised. 

“I still can’t believe you saved Lex Luthor’s life. You know, tomorrow I’m going to go over there and give him a piece of my mind,” Bruce said, chomping down viciously on an incredibly gooey cookie. It wasn’t all that satisfying, though it was delicious. 

“Bruce, don’t do that. Lex didn’t almost hit me on purpose. He lost control, it’s not his fault.” 

“Yes it is, he was texting, your dad said so,” Bruce argued. Clark sighed, but let it go. 

“Fine, whatever you say, Bruce.” 

Bruce nodded, mollified. 

“Anyway, do you want to talk about what happened at school today?” Clark asked suddenly. Bruce really didn’t, but he felt he owed it to Clark. He still felt guilty; it was his fault that Clark had even been on that bridge in the first place. If Bruce had just gotten a hold of himself he would’ve been able to drive Clark home, and none of this would have ever happened. He was a bad friend, and more than that he was responsible. Lex Luthor may have driven off that bridge, but Bruce was the one who’d sent Clark to it, and he wasn’t quite sure which was worse. 

“I’m really sorry about that, I was just being petty. I had to partner with Trevor Chapell, and I guess I was just hurt that you picked Lana over me,” Bruce said. Clark frowned. 

“I know, I shouldn’t have, not when I’d already made the promise to be your partner. It was just such a perfect opportunity, and more than that, I just can’t say no to her.” 

Bruce understood that, at least. After all, he couldn’t say no to Clark, either. He just nodded. 

“It’s okay, Clark. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. Besides, you’re right. It’s a good plan. It’s not going to work, but it’s a good plan,” he smirked up at Clark, and all was forgiven. Clark rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. 

“We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we, mister cynical?” He asked. Bruce laughed, and shoved him. 

“I’m only cynical to balance out your naivete. You’d be a disaster without me,” Bruce said. 

“Yeah, I probably would,” Clark replied. 

They finished the rest of their cookies in companionable silence. 

\----

The next day after school Bruce dropped Clark off at the Kent farm, which he would be doing every day from then on simply for his own peace of mind if nothing else, and then headed to the Luthor mansion to, as he’d put it the night before, give Lex a piece of his mind. He drove up to the gate and hit the buzzer. A thin, irritated voice answered.   
“Yes? Who is it?” 

“Bruce Wayne to see Lex Luthor,” Bruce said. Luckily the name Wayne had always and would always carry clout with the wealthy, and with their staff. 

“Oh, yes, of course Mr. Wayne, come right on in,” the voice said through the speaker, no longer irritated, but instead perfectly genteel and polite. Bruce rolled his window back up and drove through the wrought iron gates as they swung open. He rolled his car up to the front door, and rapped heartily on the thickly carved oak doors. The doors were quickly pulled open and Bruce made his way inside. 

“May I take your coat, sir?” The butler asked. He was a small mousy man with thinning blonde hair and beady black eyes. Bruce carefully shrugged off his dark blue pea coat and handed it to the butler, who then gestured toward the left hall. 

“Mr. Luthor is in his office, sir,” he said. 

“Thank you.” Bruce walked off down the hall, making his way past several closed doors before he reached the door to Lex’s office, which was open. Lex had been notified about his arrival, then. Bruce stepped inside to see Lex sitting at his desk. He was leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach. 

“Bruce Wayne, it’s been too long. Come, sit,” Lex said, gesturing to the chair across from him on the other side of the desk. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. It was a beautifully carved wooden chair, made for appearance, not comfort. It was designed to scare the seated with the wealth of the owner, and make them uncomfortable upon arrival. It was the kind of chair that no matter how much you shifted you could never find a comfortable position to sit in. Fortunately Bruce was significantly wealthier than the Luthor’s, and knew this trick well. He sat down gracefully in his most attractive pose. He crossed one knee over the other and folded his hands on top of them. He did not shift an inch. Lex smiled. 

“It has, but I’m not here to talk about ancient history, Lex. No, in fact I’m here to talk about much more recent events. Specifically when you almost hit Clark Kent driving off the Smallville bridge.” 

Lex raised an eyebrow.

“Almost?” He asked. Bruce’s eyes narrowed further. 

“Well you didn’t exactly hit him, did you?” 

Lex shrugged. “No, I supposed I didn’t. What is it exactly that you’re looking for here, Bruce? I’ve already given Clark compensation for saving my life. I sent him a brand new truck this morning. If you’re out of school already, then he’ll have gotten it by now. I’ve paid my dues, so what else do you want?” 

Bruce held back a grimace. Knowing the Kents, specifically Jonathan, he knew how that truck would be received. Bruce didn’t think it was likely that Clark would have the truck for the rest of the day, if that. 

“You made a mistake that almost proved fatal to two people, I want assurance that it won’t happen again.” Bruce leaned forward. “This is my town, Lex. You may have spent your childhood here, but I’ve lived here for far longer than you ever did. This is my town, and these are my people. I want your assurance that you’re not going to damage them.” 

Lex’s smile grew sardonic.

“So it’s not just about your poor friend, Mr. Kent. It’s about me, about the Luthor name. You’re worried we have something planned.” 

Bruce sat back. 

“I’m worried _you_ have something planned. I could care less about your father. As brilliant a man as he once was the world is changing, and we’re coming to the age when the big businesses rotate out their CEO’s for a younger, more adaptable model. You and I both know you’re on the fast track to taking over this company, and that you’re just biding your time waiting for your father to die or get out of the way.” Bruce had done much more extensive research the night before, after learning about Clark’s accident. What he found was that Lex hated his father, a father that was likely as abusive and distant as Bruce’s had been kind and present. 

Lex was too professional to look impressed, but Bruce could see it in his eyes. Bruce might be young, but Lex was starting to take him seriously. 

“And what about you, Bruce? What plans do you have for Smallville?” 

“None at all,” Bruce said. Lex nodded. 

“Well then that makes two of us. I don’t have any plans for this place, at least not malicious ones. Maybe I’m planning to revamp our plant, clear out the unnecessary baggage and do a round of new hires to boost the plant’s productivity and the town’s economy, but other than that, no. No plans at all.” 

Bruce frowned, but didn’t concede just yet. 

“Why did you really come here?”

“I just told you why. Was it the sarcasm that threw you off? Because I can repeat it in layman’s terms if you’d like,” Lex smirked. 

“No, I mean the real reason you’re here. Sitting at the top of the long list of things we both know to be true is that you’re a city boy, Lex. A party animal with a drinking problem and the work ethic of a sloth. So, why are you in Smallville? Have you finally gotten around to step twelve? Ready to move on and start fresh?” Bruce asked. Lex’s smirk slipped, just barely. 

“I didn’t want to be here originally, I’ll admit that, but now that I am here, I’m getting to work. I’m going to turn the plant around, work on healing the company from the bottom up. I plan on doing good work here, Bruce, real work. Not that I’d expect you to know what that means. You haven’t worked a day in your life.”

“Neither have you,” Bruce fired back. Lex tapped the papers on his desk.

“I started today, that officially puts me ahead of you,” he said, smirk firmly back in place. Bruce clenched his jaw, refusing to let his embarrassment show. 

“Well, be that as it may, you’ve still got a lot to prove, and old money still beats new money; the Wayne name still means more than the Luthor name, so you better mean what you say, because I am much more powerful than you allow yourself to believe I am,” Bruce said, his voice dangerous in it’s certainty. Lex’s neck began to color just slightly, and his lips thinned. Newly wealthy men never liked having their wealth questioned, that was one of the first things Bruce had been taught about blue bloods. That they were very easily manipulated because of it was something that Bruce had figured out himself. 

Before Lex could continue their verbal sparring a shockingly familiar voice rang out through the hallway.

“Lex?” It was Clark, unmistakably. What the hell was Clark doing in the Luthor mansion? 

“Lex?” Clark called again, just as the discovered the open door to the office. 

“Oh, Lex, there you are- Bruce?” He asked as Bruce turned to face him. Bruce smiled in greeting. 

“Hi Clark, sorry, Lex and I just had some business to discuss,” Bruce said. Bruce could see Lex force himself to relax. 

“Yes, business. What is it Clark?” He asked. Clark, after a moment’s hesitation, handed Lex the keys to his shiny new truck. Bruce noticed the keys were stamped with the Ford logo. An all American car for an all American boy, Lex was clearly observant. 

“I came to tell you that I can’t keep the truck,” he said. 

“What? You don’t like it?” Lex asked, clearly joking. 

“No, it’s not that, it’s just- I can’t keep it. It wouldn’t be right.” Ever the hero. 

“Clark, you saved my life. Not only do you deserve it, but it’s the least I can do,” Lex insisted. Bruce watched as Clark’s expression shifted from persuadable to decided. There was nothing Lex could say that would change his mind now. Lex seemed to realize it, too. 

“You’re father doesn’t like me, does he?” Lex asked, his voice almost resigned. Clark opened his mouth to argue, but Lex cut him off.

“It’s okay,” he said. He sat back in his chair again, and he seemed to have forgotten Bruce was even there. “I’ve been bald since I was nine. I’m used to people judging me before they get to know me.” And here his eyes shot to Bruce, just for a half a second, just enough for a _Ha, see what you did? See how ignorant you are?_

“It’s nothing personal,” Clark said. “He’s just not crazy about your dad.” 

This had an interesting effect on Lex, one that Bruce watched closely. Lex’s lips thinned the same way they did when Bruce had insulted him. There was a faraway look in his eyes, like he was remembering something, something that was making him angry. 

“Figures the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said, and then more softly, “Understandable.” 

He looked up again, “What about you, Clark? Did you fall far from the tree?” 

Clark didn’t seem to know quite how to respond to that. Instead he simply put the keys on Lex’s desk, reaching past Bruce to do so. He didn’t meet either of their eyes. 

“I’d better go,” he said. “Thanks for the truck.”

Bruce could see the indecisive look on Lex’s face as Clark walked away. Finally he stopped him by calling his name. Clark turned back to look at him. 

“Do you believe a man can fly?” Lex asked. Bruce side eyed him, not willing to ignore the sudden and odd change in subject, especially not when it sounded so deliberate and calculated coming out of Lex’s mouth. 

“Sure, in a plane,” Clark replied.

“No, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about soaring through the clouds with nothing but air beneath you.” 

“People can’t fly, Lex,” Clark said. Bruce remained silent, intent on observing and gathering information. This felt significant somehow, what Lex was saying. It also felt like Clark didn’t understand that significance, and so Bruce wanted to. 

“I did,” Lex continued, his eyes drifting as memories took hold of him. “After the accident, when my heart stopped. It was the most exhilarating two minutes of my life. I flew over Smallville and for the first time I didn’t see a dead end. I saw a new beginning. We are the future, Clark, and I don’t want anything to stand in the way of our friendship.” 

The room was silent for a long moment. Bruce had given up watching Clark’s reactions, it was clear he didn’t quite understand what Lex was talking about, and instead he was watching Lex. He was watching the emotion in his eyes, and the subtle shift of his facial features. One thing was certain, Lex knew something, something he wanted to convey to Clark without Bruce understanding. Unfortunately for Lex, Bruce understood people better than Clark did, and he was the one hearing the duality of Lex’s words. Finally Clark gave a polite nod. 

“Goodbye, Lex, Bruce,” he said. He shot one last glance at Bruce before walking off back the way he’d come. Once he was gone, Bruce turned back to Lex, who’s eyes were pinned to the doorway.

“What do you know?” Bruce asked. Lex finally looked at him, his face a mask of neutrality. He wasn’t sure how much to reveal, if he could really trust Bruce. 

“You want the best for Smallville, don’t you?” Lex asked. Bruce didn’t hesitate. 

“Of course I do,” he said. Lex nodded. 

“I hit Clark with my car,” he said finally. Bruce was unable to withhold his surprised reaction.

“What?” 

“I hit Clark with my car. He didn’t move out of the way, I didn’t swerve out of the way. I don’t know what he told you, but I drove straight into him, and we both went off that bridge together.” 

Bruce stared at him.

“That’s not possible,” he said. 

“Maybe not,” Lex sighed, “but it’s true.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, both of them processing what Lex had just divulged. Bruce didn’t believe him but he had little reason to lie, and if he was going to lie he would doubtlessly make it something more believable. There would be no reason to tell Bruce something so unbelievable if it wasn’t what Lex himself believed. 

And for sure Lex did believe it. Whether it was really true remained to be proven. 

“I know you haven’t worked a day in your life, but if you’re interested in changing that to even our score, I could use a consultant on matters concerning Smallville as a town. Where to look for new hires, what the dynamics of the town are. You could come by tomorrow, around six. If you’re interested of course,” Lex said. There was something daring in his eyes, something that made it clear to Bruce that this would be more than just work. Bruce couldn’t decide if he minded or not that Lex was clearly hitting on him. The bottom line of it was that Bruce needed to keep his eye on Lex, especially if he was going after Clark. Even if there was some truth to Lex’s story, Bruce and Clark had been friends for almost a decade, and Bruce was more willing to trust Clark than Lex. Either way he needed more information, more evidence before he made his decisions. And anyway, it had been a long time since he’d been on a real date. 

Bruce smiled his most attractive smile. 

“I can’t tomorrow,” he said. “What about Thursday?” 

Lex grinned like a shark. 

“It’s a date.”

\----

On Wednesday Bruce arrived at the library exactly at five fifty-five, and when Trevor arrived five minutes past six, Bruce proceeded to spend ten minutes berating him, and then the next half hour glaring at him. They worked on their project until seven thirty before setting up a meeting for the same time the next week. Bruce then went home and proceeded to panic about the pseudo date he’d set up with Lex Luthor of all people. It wasn’t really a date, he reminded himself. It was more like reconnaissance. Besides, he was still only seventeen, and even though the age of consent in Kansas was sixteen, high society tended not to like sex scandals in general. Of course, their kind were fairly discrete about things like that, especially considering the damage sex scandals tended to do to family reputations. 

The point was that it wasn’t a date. Bruce wouldn’t be taking his clothes off, there would be no sex scandal, and it absolutely was not a date. 

Only was it? 

Lex hadn’t been clear, but Bruce hadn’t wanted the indignity of needing clarification, and so they’d left it at that. Only now Bruce was cursing his own pride because he wasn’t sure if he was dressing to impress a coworker or a romantic prospect.

He split the difference and went for his usual dress shirt and sweater on top. A sweater was professional, but slip it off and a dress shirt was easy to remove. 

Bruce liked to think practically. 

Bruce got to the Luthor mansion at six o’clock on the dot on Thursday night. The same wrinkly butler answered the door, and, after once again taking Bruce’s coat, he directed Bruce down the hall to one of the study’s. This was, again, ambiguous. 

Bruce walked in to find various maps and documents scattered around the room. This was less ambiguous, and he was suddenly very glad he wore the sweater. 

“What do we have here?” He asked. Lex looked up from where he was examining a stack of files that appeared to be for his employees. 

“I told you that you’d be working,” he said. Bruce folded his arms across his chest. 

“I’m expressing curiosity, not surprise,” he shot back. Lex smirked and closed the file he was reading. 

“I’m looking at employees today. My family hasn’t personally managed this plant in several years. My father’s given it to me as a test. He wants me to fail, but I’m not going to.” It was said casually, not even matter of fact, it was simply what he believed to be the logical conclusion to his sentence. Bruce almost admired him for it. Almost. 

“So what do you want me to do?” 

“I’m going through the list of people to fire, people who are dead weight to the company. I need you to find hard working people to replace them. They’ll make a fantastic salary with a nice bonus and great benefits. I want my workers happy, Bruce, but I also want them to do their jobs.” 

Bruce nodded. He sat down in one of the armchairs, which was significantly more comfortable than the wooden chair had been two days ago, and therefore spoke to Lex’s approval of him. 

“Hand me the files of the people you want to fire, and I’ll tell you who to replace them with,” Bruce said. Lex nodded, and handed him a small stack of files he’d already been through.

“You can start here.”

They worked diligently for several hours. Bruce encouraged Lex to look at people with less experience who he knew to be intelligent. He told Lex that poaching good workers from local businesses wasn’t going to do him any favors with the townsfolk, and that the best thing to do was to hire the people who’d been out of the game too long, and had a hard time finding work despite their aptitude. Lex took down Bruce’s suggestions in a carefully kept notepad, and together they worked all the way through dinner and into the night.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Lex said eventually. Bruce raised an eyebrow at him over the file of someone called Nugent, Frederick. 

“Sounds like you already did,” he said, eyes roaming back to the file. Lex’s lips thinned, but he pressed on regardless.

“I told you last week that I hit Clark with my car. Do you believe me?” He asked. This was a particular sort of mine field for Bruce. If he said yes he risked Luthor’s continued prying into Clark’s life. Bruce didn’t know whether or not what Lex said was true, but regardless he doubted Clark wanted Lex looking into any secrets he may or may not have. It was Bruce’s job to protect Clark here, because no one else was in the position to. On the other hand, if Bruce said no he risked alienating Lex, and losing the tentative trust he’d managed to obtain. 

“I don’t know. I’d need more than your word but I’m certainly willing to start with it,” Bruce said. He didn’t exactly ask for proof, because he thought that could end up causing trouble as well. Lex nodded.

“I probably wouldn’t believe you if you just said yes, anyway. I think you’re too smart for that,” he said. Bruce nodded. 

“I certainly am,” he agreed, ignoring Lex’s amused snort. 

“What if I could get you proof?” He asked. Bruce closed the file and set it down on the table. This would take some maneuvering. He didn’t want Lex suspicious, but he also didn’t want Lex “looking for proof,” whatever that entailed.

“Clark has been my best friend since childhood. I don’t know how you would go about looking for proof, but I’m certain he wouldn’t enjoy it, and I don’t want you to do anything to hurt him. If what you say is true then I will figure it out on my own. I don’t want you messing around in his life. He’s too good a person, and more than that he just saved you from certain death. I think you owe him his privacy if nothing else. Something to make up for that truck I could have told you he wouldn’t take.” 

Lex pursed his lips, “It almost sounds like you love him,” he said. Bruce carefully schooled his expression. 

“Nonsense. I’d say I’m married to my work, but I fear it’s been a dangerously short relationship, and I’ve never been one for making rash decisions.” 

Lex quirked a smile.

“Fine, I won’t go looking for proof, but I think you should. You’re his friend, you can get close to him. We can really talk once I’m sure you believe me,” he said. Bruce shrugged. 

“Whatever you say,” he replied, and went back to his files.

~~~~

Finally it was nearing ten o’clock and Alfred called Bruce to remind him to come home. 

“Still have a curfew I see?” Lex asked, once Bruce hung up. Bruce knew Lex was just trying to get under his skin, and that he should ignore him, but he didn’t like people casting aspersions on his youth. 

“I have a guardian who cares about me and wants me to get a suitable amount of rest in order to wake up on time tomorrow. Who’s tucking you in tonight? Your plant manager?” Bruce asked blithely. Lex shot him a sternly amused glance. 

“I do enjoy our little talks Bruce, you have the most delightfully colorful commentary.” The sarcasm was laid on thick. 

“Same to you, Lex,” Bruce grinned. Lex leaned forward suddenly, his hand settling on Bruce’s knee. 

“I really do appreciate having you here Bruce. You’ve been a great help to me, and I’m sure you could continue to help me. Talk to Clark, and what do you say to the same time next week?” He asked. His face was mere inches from Bruce’s. So close that Bruce could smell the filet mignon from dinner on his breath. He smiled. 

“I’ll have to check, but I’m sure I can find the time,” he said. 

“Excellent,” Lex replied. 

\----

The next day when Bruce drove Clark back to the Kent farm he decided to stay over and do his homework for Monday at Clark’s. He was strategically not telling Clark about Lex because he wasn’t sure how Clark would react. Jonathan Kent certainly wouldn’t like it, and while Clark didn’t hold his father’s opinions as law, Bruce was still wary of telling him. Not only that, but he still wasn’t sure what Lex wanted from him, not exactly, and until he knew that he wouldn’t be saying anything to anybody. Even Clark. 

Bruce was lying on Clark’s bed diligently working his way through a math worksheet, while Clark flipped idly through the tattered pages of a middle aged book. When he turned just so Bruce caught a glimpse of the cover and noticed that it was none other than _Romeo and Juliet_. 

“How’s the project going?” Bruce asked, against his better judgement. 

“It’s going well. Lana’s really good at english, and she understands _Romeo and Juliet_ way better than I do,” he said. 

“Well that’s good, considering you told me last week that you didn’t understand it at all,” Bruce shot back. Clark sighed. 

“Yeah, and I still don’t really get it, but Lana does, and she loves it so that’s all that matters.” 

“How considerate of you, Clark.” Bruce shut his math notebook just a tad more harshly than his calculus equations probably deserved. 

“I know you think I’m ridiculous, but on the bright side my plan is working. Lana seems to like me a lot better now. We’re really clicking, you know?” 

Unfortunately, Bruce did know. Clark was extremely likeable, and he had to assume that to somebody who didn’t have a very good reason to hate her, Lana Lang was very likeable as well. 

“Yeah, I know. Well, I guess I’m happy for you. I’m glad your plan is working out, but I still think you should be careful. You can’t forget that she has a boyfriend. A very popular, very powerful boyfriend who can make your life absolutely miserable if you hit on his girlfriend and he finds out about it,” Bruce reminded him. Clark frowned. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty sure Whitney thinks I’m harmless, though. He saw me trip all over myself the other day at school, and I think ever since then he just thinks I’m some kind of idiot.” 

Bruce snorted, “Of that I have no doubt. Just, don’t get too comfortable. Whitney’s not completely stupid, contrary to popular belief, and if you keep cozying up to Lana and he finds out, he’s going to be suspicious, and he’s probably not going to like the conclusion he comes to. Don’t forget, they still haven’t chosen anyone for that stupid scarecrow thing. If you piss off Whitney, it could very well be you.”  
Clark smiled wryly. 

“I’m not too worried about that,” he said cryptically. Almost suspiciously cryptically.

“That’s stupid. You should be very worried about that,” Bruce said. Clark huffed a laugh. 

“Relax, Bruce, I’ll stay out of Whitney’s way, I promise. No one’s going to be stringing me up as a scarecrow, that I can promise you,” he said. There was something about the surety in his voice that reminded Bruce of what Lex had said. 

_I drove straight into him, and we both went off that bridge together._

Was there some truth it? Could there even _be_ some truth to it? It was highly unlikely for any man to get smashed into a guard rail by a car going sixty miles an hour, and then get thrown into a river and survive. It was impossible for that same man to come out not only alive, but without a scratch on him, simply impossible. Bruce thought back to the wall of weird Chloe had shown him the year before when she’d taken over as editor of the Torch. All of those things had seemed impossible too. He hadn’t believed any of them back then. He still technically didn’t, but even he had to admit that the evidence was beginning to stack up against him. 

There was something odd happening in Smallville, and while Bruce was sure it all had a logical explanation he was having a hard time seeing it.

“Well, good. Because if I have to save you from Reilly Farm on Homecoming night, I’m going to be pissed,” he said. 

“Oh, really? Do you have a date, then?” Clark asked. Bruce jerked up in surprise, then forced himself to relax. He hated emoting involuntarily. 

“No, it’s just the principle of the thing. It’s our last homecoming dance and I don’t want to miss it because you did exactly what I told you not to do, and I have to save you from the exact consequences I warned you about in the first place,” Bruce shot back, cool as you please. That didn’t keep Clark from laughing out loud. 

“Fine, I won’t make you save me from being the scarecrow. Happy?” He asked. Bruce flipped a page violently in annoyance. 

“Ecstatic,” he muttered. 

\----

And so things continued on in this new way of theirs. Sunday’s in Smallville remained largely unchanged. Mrs. Dayton still opened the diner at noon, Chloe still raked through Monday’s edition of the Torch with a fine toothed comb, and Clark and Bruce still spent the afternoon lazing around the Kent household doing generally teenagery things. 

Thursdays though, Thursdays had changed. Every Thursday Clark and Lana spent the afternoon working on their english project, getting to know each other over heavy handed Shakespearean prose and coffee at Talon. At the same time Bruce spent the afternoon in Lex Luthor’s mansion, helping him rake through his company’s inner workings. Bruce had gotten his fingers on employee files, financial reports, building blueprints, work orders, and production logs, among other things. Lex trusted him with it all, and the more Bruce saw, the less he trusted the Luthors. He didn’t really think it was Lex. As intelligent and self serving as Lex was, he wasn’t flat out malicious, even Bruce could admit that. He was, however, clearly being fooled by his father, who’d been running the business in a very different way than anyone anticipated. Bruce could see Lex slowly arranging the bigger picture, a picture that Bruce had guessed at on day one, and hadn’t really needed as much confirmation as Lex had in order to believe. Lionel Luthor was shady, there was no question about, and Bruce was using all the time he had to collect information about Luthor Corp. He got the feeling that when Lex figured it all out, he’d kick Bruce out so fast his head would spin. 

On the subject of their potential relationship Bruce still wasn’t sure really was potential at all, Bruce had made no headway. Every interaction between the two of them was just as annoyingly ambiguous as the last. It appeared to Bruce that Lex liked the back and forth game they played, and that he was reluctant to risk it’s end by putting labels on their relationship. Bruce, however, had no such qualms. He was confident in his ability to manipulate Lex, while sleeping with him or not, he just wanted to know if it was worth his time to begin a relationship in the first place. He was in love with Clark Kent, of that he had no doubt. He also knew that nothing Lex said or did could sway Bruce from Clark. Unfortunately nothing Bruce said or did could sway Clark from Lana, and therein lay his predicament. It was clear to Bruce that he needed to get over Clark or risk losing his friendship due to the stress of keeping his true feelings from Clark. He didn’t like lying to Clark. It was exhausting. Clark had an uncanny ability to tell when someone was lying, and so Bruce had to work very hard to keep Clark from figuring him out. To keep up something that strenuous in the long term would just be too difficult, even for Bruce. It was worth it to be friends with Clark, unfortunately he had a difficult time controlling his temper and his reactions, as evidenced by the day when he blew up at Clark about partnering with Lana, which ended up sentencing Clark to walking home alone, and almost getting hit by Lex Luthor’s porsche. 

Bruce didn’t like uncertainty, and he hated things that were out of his control. He wanted to get a handle around his Lex situation before he had to cede the upper hand to Lex. More importantly he wanted to get a handle on his Clark situation before he ruined their friendship with jealousy. 

All in all it was really not an ideal situation to be in, especially not for someone as obstinate as Bruce. 

It all more or less came to a head about a month after it had started. Homecoming was fast approaching, as was the end of their english project, and Clark wanted to ask Lana to the homecoming dance before Whitney did. When he told Bruce this, Bruce begged him not to. He’d given up on all subtlety and innuendo, and just flat out told Clark not to ask Lana or she’d tell him no and break his heart. It hadn’t gone over well. Clark had been pissed and more staunch than ever about his asking Lana. Bruce felt bad about how hurt Clark had been when Bruce tried to talk him out of it, but he knew he was going to feel worse when Clark came home one fateful night with Lana’s boot prints all over his heart. 

That fateful night was a Friday afternoon. It was another one of those nights when Bruce had decided on accepting his standing invitation to dinner with the Kent’s. He hadn’t seen Clark after school, but Clark had told him he was going to Talon with Lana to do final checks on their project as their presentation date was that upcoming Monday. 

Bruce drove over to the Kent’s and knocked on the door, a cellophane wrapped plate of cookies in his hands. Martha answered the door. 

“Oh, hello Bruce. Aren’t you such a dear, always bringing cookies over. Here I’ll take these. Clark isn’t in here; he came home and went straight to the barn. He’s probably up in the loft, if I had to guess,” she said. She took the plate from his hands, and he thanked her and made his way to the barn. Clark spending all day hanging around in the barn loft didn’t bode well for the results of his conversation with Lana. Bruce moved quickly up the ladder only to find Clark standing morosely by the telescope, lens pointed, no doubt, toward the Lang household. 

“Clark, you can’t stalk the girl after she says no to you, that’s new levels of creepy. Not to mention morally objectionable,” Bruce said. Clark turned to look at Bruce. His eyes were bloodshot but his lashes were dry, which meant he was done crying, if nothing else.

“You were right,” Clark said. He turned away and sat down heavily. Bruce had never hated being right so much. 

“I didn’t want to be, and I’m not happy I am. In this case I would rather have been wrong every time than be right once,” Bruce said quietly. Clark nodded. 

“I know,” he said. It clearly didn’t make him feel any better. Not that Bruce blamed him, it probably wouldn’t have made him feel any better either. 

Bruce sat next to Clark, and put his arm around him, pulling him into a hug. 

“Don’t worry, Clark. It’s only because of Whitney. She’s an idiot for not realizing you’re better than him, and you know what I say about idiots,” Bruce said leadingly.

“Most of them are irredeemable?” Clark asked. Bruce bit back a sigh.

“No. Well, yes, but in this case I mean some of them are teachable. They just need to be shown that they’re wrong.” 

“Yeah, but I’ve shown Lana who I am, she’s already seen the real me, gotten to know me as more than just her neighbor, and she _still_ chose Whitney!” Clark argued. Bruce couldn’t argue with that. He took a second to think about it before replying. 

“But now she has the option Clark. Before she wasn’t seeing you that way because she didn’t know you liked her, now she does. Now she can reevaluate everything you’ve done together, and who you are, and maybe, just maybe she’ll come to the right conclusion, which is that you’re miles better than Whitney could ever be,” he said. He couldn’t ignore how hypocritical it was. Still, was it really the right time to test the theory on himself? When Clark was still raw from rejection? Probably not. It wouldn’t do Bruce any favors to begin a relationship as a rebound, especially not as a rebound from Lana Lang. 

“You really think so, Bruce?” Clark asked. Did Bruce think Lana was going to break up with Whitney in order to be with Clark after going to homecoming with the “wrong guy” and undoubtedly being crowned homecoming king and queen? No, Bruce did not think so, but he figured in this one instance it might be okay to lie. 

“Who knows, Clark? Nothing’s certain. You just have to have a little faith,” Bruce told him. After all, it was something he’d told himself after watching Clark fall over himself trying to impress Lana one too many times. It was certainly possible, however unlikely, and Bruce would let Clark live with the possibility, because it was kinder than the reality. 

“Thanks, Bruce,” Clark said. He sounded like he didn’t truly believe it, but the words had soothed over some of the hurt Lana had caused, like a balm on a burn, and Bruce could hear some of the sadness leave Clark’s voice. 

Suddenly Bruce was struck with an idea. It was a stupid idea, possibly the stupidest he’d ever come up with, but it was a chance, and what had he just said about faith? You’ve got to give a little to get a little, so Bruce shut up the logical side of his brain and let the stupid idea fall in fumbling words from his all too nervous mouth.

“You know, Chloe and Pete are going to the dance as friends. Maybe we could go? You know, sort of a show Lana what she’s missing kind of thing?” Bruce asked, unwilling to elaborate. He could feel his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. His arms began to numb and his stomach turned with nerves. Whatever Clark’s answer was to this question it was going to hurt. Either he went to the homecoming dance with Bruce to get back at Lana, and in doing so Bruce ruined any chance he might have at a real date with Clark, or, worse, Clark found the idea so ludicrous or repulsive that he flat out said no. Bruce didn’t know which he wanted more. He really wanted to go to the dance with Clark, more than anything in the world he wanted to go to the dance with Clark, but he wanted it to be real. He wanted Clark to notice him, to turn to him and look at him truly for the first time. He wanted Clark to say yes and to take Bruce by the hand and tell him how beautiful he was, and how yes, absolutely yes he’d like to go to the dance with Bruce. He wanted Clark to say screw Lana, and not think for another second about her while he was with Bruce. 

But that wasn’t reality, that was a fantasy. 

Reality was Clark looking at Bruce sideways, and laughing shortly in Bruce’s face at the ridiculousness of the idea. Still, it was better than being repulsed. 

“Yeah, that’d show her,” Clark said, sarcasm evident, tone joking, and Bruce’s heart broke in half. He took his arm back from around Clark, and looked at the floor, blood rushing through his ears. 

“You never know, it could work,” he said, voice carefully neutral. Clark snorted. 

“Yeah, somehow I think the last thing Lana’s going to be thinking about during homecoming is what I’m doing with you,” he said. Bruce could hardly swallow past the lump in his throat. Somehow this was worse than he imagined. This callousness. This casual flippiance that said that Clark didn’t even take the offer seriously enough to imagine what would happen if it were real. He didn’t care one inch about what Bruce thought, he cared only for Lana Lang. This, truly, was the only cruelty Clark Kent was capable of. An accidental cruelty born of oblivion, a cruelty of love. He could never imagine how many people loved him, how many people could want him so completely, because he too loved that completely, that heartbreakingly through to the bone. He loved Lana like Bruce loved him, and because of that he would never spare Bruce a second glance, couldn’t, really, and Bruce understood, because he felt the exact same way. 

Understanding though he may be, Bruce didn’t need to stick around and let himself be vulnerable in front of the man who’d just unwittingly rejected him. 

“Well, at least you have some options. Could always stay home, too. Speaking of home, I’d better go. I just stopped by to check on you, and I promised Alfred I’d have dinner with him,” he said. Clark glanced at him, and smiled. 

“Sure, of course. Don’t worry about little old me, I’ll be fine. Tell Alfred I say hi.”  
Bruce nodded, “Sure thing. I’ll see you later, Clark.”

“Bye, Bruce,” Clark waved a little wave and Bruce began his descent back down the ladder. He quickly made his way out of the barn, looking back for only a second to see Clark back at the telescope. Having already forgotten about Bruce, he was once again looking toward Lana. 

Bruce left the barn and headed straight for his car, not looking back again. 

He strapped on his seatbelt and turned on the ignition. He had one more dumb idea to enact before the night was through, one he hoped wouldn’t work out as poorly as the last one had. 

He put the car in drive and turned in the direction of Lex Luthor’s house. 

\----

Bruce was quickly admitted to the Luthor mansion, despite the late hour and the irregularity that came with his appearance on a Friday instead of a Thursday. The butler took his coat, and pointed him in the direction of a study, a different one than that in which they usually worked. When Bruce entered the room Lex was sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, a glass of something amber sitting in his left hand. 

“Bruce? What is it?” He asked. Bruce’s heart pounded in his chest. Two rejections in one night would undo him, and yet here he was anyway. 

He pulled his sweater over his head and dropped it to the floor. Lex put down his glass. Bruce walked closer, each step calculated and precise as he slowly undid the buttons on his dress shirt. When he reached the armchair he slid into Lex’s lap, feeling the hard press of solid thighs and a rapidly hardening cock beneath his ass. He dropped his head down to Lex’s neck and whispered in his ear,

“I’m done playing games.” 

He managed one kiss before Lex grabbed his ass, and pulled Bruce more solidly to him, grinding up against Bruce while he attacked his neck with teeth and tongue. 

“Good,” he said. “It’s about fucking time.” 

Bruce moaned.

\----

In the aftermath Bruce sprawled naked across Lex’s bed, ass pleasantly sore, neck and chest decorated with multicolored hickeys. Lex stepped back into bed, rolling over and pulling Bruce to his chest. 

“I think it might be time for a real date,” Lex said, trailing his fingers down Bruce’s waist and thigh. Bruce almost purred. 

“Might be,” he agreed. 

“When are you free next week?” Lex asked. 

Bruce thought about it for a moment. His presentation was on Tuesday, the homecoming dance was on Friday. 

“How does Friday sound?” He asked. 

“Perfect,” Lex replied, pressing a kiss against a bitten red spot on Bruce’s neck. Bruce smiled. 

“Perfect.” 

\----

Bruce saw Clark several times throughout the next week, but only at school. He didn’t go to the Kent’s for dinner, or to study, or for any reason at all. After Clark’s presentation on Monday Bruce congratulated him and told him he’d done a good job. Truthfully, Bruce hadn’t heard a single word of the presentation. He’d been too busy listening to the roaring in his ears at the sight of Clark and Lana so buddy buddy even after she’d broken Clark’s heart. 

On Thursday he went to Lex’s mansion to help him with the Luthor Corp plant as per usual, only this time instead of working on business matters they spent most of the afternoon screwing on top of every available surface. They ended the night with a very thorough christening of Lex’s desk, and then Bruce went home. 

Friday was their date. Bruce didn’t know what Clark was planning on doing for homecoming. He hadn’t asked and Clark hadn’t offered on any of their daily drives to and from school. Bruce assumed it was something along the lines of sitting in the barn loft waiting for Lana to get home. Frankly, he didn’t really care what Clark was up to. The rejection had stung, and he needed time to get over it. And get over it he would, absolutely. Above all Clark was his best friend, and Bruce wouldn’t sacrifice their friendship for anything, even a broken heart. 

Besides, he had Lex now, and that was better than being alone. 

Technically. 

The problem was that Lex was undeniably a rebound, and eventually Bruce would get tired of him and his particular way of weaving every conversation with a double entendre. That would probably become a problem when they both grew to inherit their father’s companies, but that was a problem for the future, and Bruce had time to devise a plan to handle it if necessary.

Their date that night was in Metropolis. Lex flew them down to the city in a private jet with his name stamped in big green letters across the side. The restaurant was expensive; the prices weren’t listed on the menus, and there were half a dozen courses. The ambiance was a carefully crafted almost darkness that lent itself to deep cutting shadows and eyes hidden beneath brows. There were cloth napkins on the table and instead of butter a small dish of spiced lardo sat next to the fresh baked bread. Lex ordered a nigh unpronounceable plate of fish for dinner and Bruce got a cut of steak so delicate looking he almost couldn’t believe it came from something as bulky as a cow. 

“I see you’re holding strong to your artificial midwestern roots, Bruce,” Lex said, pointing at his steak. Bruce’s lips thinned. 

“You’re the one from Kansas, Lex,” Bruce said, a smile as delicate and bloody as his steak gracing his black and white lit features. 

Overall the date was dreadful. The conversation was an exhausting mix of thinly veiled insults and intensely competitive verbal sparring. The food was delicious, of course, but it was delicious in that way that made Bruce think of other things he’d rather be eating. The desert was some kind of raspberry and chocolate french cream tart topped with pistachios and gold leaf. It made Bruce think of Martha Kent’s fudge brownies, and how you had to eat them with a spoon because they were just that gooey. Lex didn’t seem to be enjoying himself much more than Bruce, but he was definitely having more fun competing than Bruce was. 

“So, how’s Clark?” Lex asked. Bruce snapped a raspberry seed between his teeth and was irritated to realize that part of it had gotten stuck between his molars. 

“Same as every other day I expect. Assuming no more partially unhinged millionaires drove him off another bridge,” Bruce shot back. 

“You expect? What? Is there trouble in little old Smallville?” Lex asked. Bruce shot him a vicious glare and stabbed at his teeth with his tongue in a misguided attempt to get the seed out from between them. 

“No trouble. I don’t have him lojacked, and as such I don’t know his exact whereabouts tonight, sorry to disappoint you,” he replied. The right corner of Lex’s mouth twitched up in an infuriating smirk.

“I didn’t ask you where he was. The homecoming dance is tonight I assume his whereabouts are fairly obvious, no, I asked you how he’s doing. So, Bruce, how is he doing?” Lex was more insistent now, he’d backed Bruce into a corner and he knew it. Embarrassed but unwilling to show it, Bruce took another bite of his tart in an effort to slow the conversation down. 

“He’s good, then. He had a presentation on Monday and did well, I’m assuming it was quite the accomplishment for him,” Bruce said sarcastically. Lex’s smirk only grew. 

“Who’s he going with to the homecoming dance?” He asked. Bruce licked his lips, tasting raspberry sharp on his lower lip.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, not looking at Lex.

“You don’t? So there _is_ trouble in paradise, then?” 

“No, he just got rejected earlier this week and he hasn’t gotten over it. He hasn’t wanted to talk about the stupid dance since then,” Bruce said defensively.

“Who rejected him?” Lex asked. 

“Should I be worried that you spend so much of your time meddling in the lives of minors?” Bruce shot back, he was quickly losing hold of the conversation. 

“Not at all. What I can’t figure out is why you would be so upset about Clark being rejected,” Lex mused. 

“I’m not upset.” 

“Yes you are. You set our date for the night of the dance. If Clark isn’t going I’d assume you’d spend the night with him, considering you two are supposed to be best friends forever or whatever you call it. So what is it? Why are you here with me instead of at home with poor lonely dejected Clark Kent?” 

Bruce looked up finally. Lex was too smart for his own good. It was unfortunate for Bruce’s poor aggravated sanity. 

“While I’m sure that line of thought leads to something you’d find absolutely riveting, I think the only really important thing to note here is that all together you were my second choice for the evening, and what a second choice evening it has turned out to be.” Bruce set his fork down on his plate with a note of finality. Lex shrugged. 

“Second choice or not you’re still here, aren’t you?” 

Bruce sighed.

“Unfortunately, and now I would like to leave,” he said. He tried not to think of it as admitting defeat, but the smirk on Lex’s lips argued otherwise.

~~~~

When they finally took the jet back to the Luthor mansion Bruce was more than ready to be done with their date. He was making his way to the exit, when Lex grabbed his arm. 

“Hey, where are you going? Not going to make me beg for it are you?” He asked, eyes stuck on Bruce’s lips. Bruce sighed.

“I’m not having sex with you in this mausoleum one more time, especially not tonight,” he said, irritated. Lex frowned.

“I guess I understand that. Hey, what about the plant? It’s closed for the day, there’s nobody there. Maybe we can even get a little work done,” he leered. Bruce was largely unimpressed, but an inside look at the plant and Lex’s offices wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Bruce rolled the idea around in his head, and finally nodded.

“Fine, but you’re doing all the work,” he said. Lex grinned, and led him out to his car. They took the short way to the plant, which probably meant Lex was on the more urgent end of horny, much to Bruce’s disdain. 

They pulled up in front of the plant just in time to catch a man, a teenager really, stumble out of Reilly corn field. Bruce stared, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He had all his clothes on so he probably wasn’t this years scarecrow, but just the fact that he was in the field on this night of all nights made Bruce suspicious. 

One glance at Lex and Bruce knew he had his own suspicions

“I know him,” Lex muttered, his voice far away. The boy had noticed them, and now ran off, away from both them and the field. 

“What?” Bruce asked. 

“It’s impossible. He was- but he couldn’t be.”

“Lex who is he?” Bruce asked, getting a little bit desperate. Something in the air felt charged, like the solid pressure of a barely caged storm just before it breaks. 

“He was in the field, tied to a post, but that was years ago, a decade ago, it’s impossible,” he said. Several things occurred to Bruce at one. The comatose boy Chloe had been talking about, put on her wall of weird. Bruce had been avoiding Clark all week, he hadn’t been with them when Chloe had shown them the picture, he’d only heard about it later on.The boy had been the scarecrow, and if he’d been in Reilly field someone else was in there now, strung up on a post, half naked and branded with the Smallville S. 

Bruce might not be able to jump off a bridge to save someone’s life, but this, this he could do. 

“There’s someone in there!” He shouted, and ran off in the direction of the field. 

“Bruce! Wait! I’ve got a flashlight!” Lex called from behind him. Bruce ran blindly into the field, relying on his training and the moonlight to get him through. He could see the occasional flash of light as Lex jogged through behind him. Finally Bruce stumbled through the corn and into the small clearing where the scarecrow stood. There, tied to the post, S on his chest, Lana’s necklace hung around his neck like a dog collar, was Clark. 

“Clark!” Bruce cried. Clark looked up at him; he could barely lift his head. 

“Bruce? What are you doing here?” He croaked.

Just then Lex crashed through the corn behind Bruce. 

“Clark?” He asked. 

“Lex?”

“Lex, help me get him down!” Bruce snapped, already working on the rope wrapped around Clark’s thighs. Bruce held his chest to steady him as Lex untied his arms. When Clark fell he crashed into Bruce, knocking them both down. 

“Oof!” Bruce landed with a thud. His hand, which had been scrambling for purchase, ripped the necklace from Clark’s neck. When he landed it was knocked out of his hand by the impact. 

Clark stood immediately, seemingly fine. He held out a hand to Bruce to help him up, then went straight for his clothes. 

“I’ve got to go,” he said, gathering up his clothes in his hands. 

“Clark, wait! We’ve got to get you to a doctor!” 

“I’m fine. He wants to get back at them, I can’t let him,” he said, already leaving. 

“Clark!” Bruce called. 

“At least let us give you a ride!” Lex shouted after him, but Clark was long gone. Bruce’s heart thudded in his chest. The boy, the comatose boy, Clark had said he wanted to get back at _them_ , the football players who’d strung him up, no doubt. Only they were mostly all dead already. Who else could he be targeting? 

Bruce could have smacked himself for being so oblivious. The football players were still doing this, they were still stringing up boys they thought below them, the comatose boy would want to see them punished for it. If he wanted revenge there was only one place he could find football players on homecoming night: the dance. The odds of Clark getting there without a car before the kid killed someone were astronomical. 

In a decisive moment of bravery Bruce turned and brushed past Lex, picking his pocket and grabbing his keys as he did so. Then he ran back through the fields, back to the car. If Clark couldn’t get there in time then Bruce would just have to be the one to stop the comatose boy.

“Bruce!” Lex called after him. 

“I’ve got to go get him, he needs a doctor!” Bruce shouted back, unwilling to tell Lex anything true or important, he didn’t trust Lex. Not now, possibly not ever. 

“Well at least let me give _you_ a ride!” He shouted a little hysterically.

“Thanks!” Bruce shouted back. He jumped into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, turned on the ignition and was pulling out just as Lex finally stumbled his way out of the corn field. 

“Hey!” He shouted as Bruce gassed his car and sped off. Bruce would return it later. 

He sped through Smallville like the devil was on his ass. This boy had killed before, several times. What Clark thought he could do to stop a murderer was beyond Bruce, if he even got there in time, but he had to stop him before Clark Kent became the next name on his list of victims. 

Bruce sped through dirt roads, across mostly abandoned highways, taking the shortest route possible to the high school. He parked as close to the school as possible, and stepped out of the car. He looked around, but didn’t see anything except lights and bad dresses. 

Finally he heard a crash, like glass shattering. It wasn’t coming from inside though, Bruce ran through the darkness until he was in the back of the school. Somehow Clark had made it there before Bruce in Lex’s top of the line sports car, because there he was, squaring off with the boy, a car with a broken windshield lay between them. 

“Give it up, Jeremy,” Clark said. The boy, Jeremy presumably, slammed his hand on the hood of the car, and electricity surged through his arm, bright and blue and crackling, channeling through the metal to the machine below. The engine revved, charged and turned on, and Jeremy got inside. Bruce thought he was going to drive away, but was surprised when Jeremy drove the car straight for Clark. Bruce almost screamed, but stopped short when he realized that once the car hit him Clark was just… _hanging on_. He was just lying there, holding onto the hood of the car like it was nothing, like it hadn’t just hit him. Jeremy swerved and they turned a corner, driving further from the dance. Bruce jerked into action and ran after them. He followed them around the corner just in time to see Jeremy’s car, with Clark still attached to the hood, crash into the side of a building. Bricks and rubble rained down on the car as it exploded into the wall. Water surged up from the earth, and Bruce realized minutely that they’d hit the water main. 

“CLARK!” Bruce screamed. He redoubled his speed and ran faster towards the wreck, only to stop short when electricity surged up again, conducted all too well by the gushing flood of water on the floor, frying the car to a crisp. Bruce stood shock still. Clark was dead, he had to be. No one could survive being run into a building, much less electrocution like that. Bruce watched, mouth agape, the icy chill of shock setting in. Another person he loved, his best friend, murdered before his eyes. Why did this happen to him? How did this happen to him? 

He was half way into a full blown melt down when the car began to move. Slowly, achingly, scraping against the jagged edges of the new hole in the wall, the car was pulled through the gap. For sure it was pulled, because the engine was fried beyond a shadow of a doubt, and there was no moving through the tight fit of that hole without force. The screeching sound of metal on brick was horrible, but finally it stopped, the driver’s side door now completely on the other side of the wall. Bruce just stared, his mind uncomprehending. He stepped closer, but stayed clear of the growing puddle of water. Finally the building’s back door was thrown open. Clark emerged, dragging Jeremy alongside him. Bruce just stared at them. They were completely fine, not a scratch on them, either of them. Clark looked up, eyes widening as he saw Bruce. He didn’t even have a black eye. Again, Lex’s words came back to Bruce. 

_I drove straight into him, and we both went off that bridge together._

Chloe’s wall of weird, Clark’s surety that no one could forcefully tie him up at the scarecrow, it all made sense in one whopping big kick to the chest. 

Clark was different, he was impossible. He was invulnerable. He was _strong_. He must have dragged Jeremy’s car through the wall, nothing and no one else could. Bruce just stared.

“Bruce?” Clark asked. Jeremy looked up, his eyes half lidded, he looked confused. If this was a secret, if Jeremy didn’t remember, Bruce wouldn’t be the one to tell him. 

“I’ll be waiting in the barn,” Bruce said, his words laced with shock, no emotion seeping through. He walked off back in the direction of Lex’s car. Clark probably would’ve followed him, called out for him, but Jeremy likely needed a hospital, and if there was one thing Clark Kent most certainly was, it was a hero. 

\----

Bruce returned Lex’s car to his mansion quickly and quietly. He took his own car back, and drove off without ever seeing Lex. He drove immediately to the Kent’s house, but didn’t knock on the door. Instead he went straight to the barn. He didn’t know who knew and who didn’t, but he wasn’t going to be the one to say anything. He sat in the quilt covered armchair, and pulled his knees up to his chest. The shock had settled in fully now, and he could feel himself growing colder. He leaned back against the armchair, holding his legs loosely, and looked out the massive barn window at the stars. They blinked calmly and rhythmically at him, calming him against his will. His eyes dragged over to the telescope and noticed with a frown that it wasn’t pointed up at the sky, but out towards Lana’s house. So Bruce, to nobody’s surprise, had been right. Clark was going to sit and wait for Lana, maybe see if she’d stop by to say hello to him, before his night had been derailed by becoming the annual scarecrow. 

Bruce didn’t hear the footsteps that said Clark was coming up the stairs, but he did feel the blanket Clark laid out on top of him. 

“Cold?” Clark asked. Bruce nodded.

“It’s the shock. Very inconvenient,” he said. A ghost of a smile passed over Clark’s lips. 

“You’ve been lying to me,” Bruce said blamelessly. He wasn’t exactly one to talk. Clark nodded, looking guilty despite Bruce’s lack of accusation.

“I have. I’ve been lying to everybody, really. The only people who know are my parents, and now you, I guess.” 

“No one else?”

“Not even Chloe or Pete,” Clark agreed. Bruce nodded. It was logical, which meant it had probably been his mother’s idea. 

“Are you mad?” Clark asked. Bruce shook his head. 

“No, I get it. I’m just shocked,” he said. Clark twisted his lips.   
“Well, you know now, so I’m going to tell you everything. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to other than Ma and Pa,” he said. Bruce smiled.

“Okay,” he said, and so Clark told him everything. 

“I’m an alien,” he began. “My spaceship crash landed in Smallville during the meteor storm in 1989. I don’t really know how old I am, but when they found me I looked like a toddler, so that’s what they assumed I was. I don’t know where the meteors came from, where _I_ came from, but I know it wasn’t earth. I’ve had these abilities all my life. The invulnerability thing, that came first. I’ve had it as long as my parents can remember. I’ve never been sick, I’d fall on the floor and come away free of bruises. Once my mom found me playing pirates with a kitchen knife, and when I accidentally cut myself the knife didn’t even make a dent in my skin. My strength came when I was really little, probably a year or two after they found me. I’d grab spoons and toys and crush them completely in my grip. It was the first thing my dad taught me to control. After that came the speed. I was a little older then, maybe eight or nine, right around the time you moved here, actually. I was running around in the backyard when suddenly I was across the fields. I ran back and forth, mowing everything down, moving so fast my sneakers started to erode. That was the next thing I had to learn to control. I get flashes, sometimes, of other things. Sometimes I can hear things that are really far away, or I can smell all the ingredients in whatever Ma’s making for dinner. I think there’s other things, too, but I just haven’t grown into them yet. I’m sure I will, soon enough.”

Bruce stared at him, slowly putting the pieces together. He felt like Lex trying to piece together Lionel’s schemes. It was like Bruce knew almost everything, but there was still one or two things he was missing, something that stopped him from carving out the whole picture in his mind. Speaking of Lex, this was what he was on to. This is what he was suspicious of, and it was probably why he’d asked Clark if he believed people could fly.

“You said you’ve never been sick?” He asked. Clark nodded.

“Never even had allergies,” he confirmed. Bruce frowned. Then why had he been so weak at the corn field? He’d been stripped to his boxers, with the only outlying variables being the paint on his chest, and Lana’s necklace. It was obvious he wasn’t harmed by paint, otherwise living on a farm would have killed him years ago, but the necklace… Clark Kent couldn’t get within five feet of Lana Lang without tripping over his own feet. Clark who was hardly clumsy, Clark who did a whole project with Lana without falling over himself once after she’d given her necklace to Whitney, Whitney who’d put the same necklace around Clark’s neck in the corn field, or maybe even before. If Clark really did have super strength Whitney should never have been able to hold him, he should’ve been off that post in a second flat, but there he’d remained, stuck and in pain for hours. 

“Lana’s necklace, it’s made of meteor rock, right?” Bruce asked. Clark frowned, but nodded eventually. 

“Yeah, I think so,” he said. 

“I think there is something you’re allergic to, Clark, and it glows green and hangs around Lana Lang’s neck. Whatever’s in that rock, it’s from where you’re from, and it’s bad for you. It saps your strength, that’s why Whitney could tie you up to that post. You were basically wearing an alien super power inhibitor around your neck,” Bruce said finally. Clark looked at him in surprise.

“I’ve got to admit that’s the last thing I expected you to say.” 

“Why? You think I’m wrong?” 

“No, I would never dare disagree with you. You’re always right, and you’re probably right about this, though I’ve got to admit I haven’t thought about it at all.”

“You haven’t thought about why you’re super strength abandoned you in the middle of a corn field tied up in your underwear like a complete idiot?” Bruce asked. Clark snorted a laugh.

“No, I haven’t. I thought you’d be more surprised by the fact that I’m an alien? From outer space? Oh, god, I hope I’m not a martian,” Clark muttered, horrified. Bruce gave a full-body laugh.

“I think you’re probably safe there, space boy, and I’m beyond surprised, believe me. I’m just… adaptable,” he said. Clark flashed him a small smile.

“I guess so,” he said. “Well, what now?”

Bruce sat back against the chair again. The quilt was soft against his head, the blanket Clark had put on him was bright red, and Bruce recognized it as the shock blanket Clark had been given after the accident with Lex. The accident which had make Lex suspicious in the first place. 

“Lex hit you with his car, didn’t he?” Bruce asked. Clark looked suddenly sheepish. 

“Uh, yeah, he did. It didn’t hurt or anything, and I really did drag him out of the car, but yeah, he hit me.” 

Bruce frowned. 

“You need to be more careful, he’s suspicious. He wanted me to investigate you, ask you about the accident. That’s why he was asking you if you think a man could fly, he suspects something. I’m not sure exactly what, but he definitely suspects you of being more than human.”

Clark frowned. 

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not. I suggest you stay away from him. You don’t want to give him any more reason to look into you. Believe me when I say that the Luthor’s are a complex bunch and you don’t want them to be on to you. Though, if Lex’s investigatory skills are any indication, you probably don’t have to worry too much as long as you don’t provoke him.” 

Clark nodded. “Got it, stay away from Lex Luthor.” 

Bruce nodded. “Also, I’ve been sleeping with him,” he said, suddenly, and without fully thinking it through. Clark’s jaw dropped. 

“What?” He asked. 

“I’ve been sleeping with Lex. We were on a date tonight, actually, that’s why I was with him in the cornfield.” 

“But, I thought you didn’t like him, and you literally just told me to stay away from him,” Clark said. He couldn’t make sense of it, that much was clear. Bruce didn’t exactly blame him.

“I know, and I don’t like him, not really,” he sighed. Clark looked even more confused at that.

“Then why are you sleeping with him?” 

Bruce shrugged. “Partially because I get bored and he infuriates me, and partially because the Luthor’s are potentially very dangerous, and I wanted to keep an eye on them. Lex is investigating his father, and he was on to you. That’s why I decided to help him with his company, I wanted to keep him away from you,” he replied. Clark frowned. He was looking at Bruce like he was the one who’d just claimed to be an alien hopefully not from Mars. 

“I don’t need you to protect me, clearly, and I would never want you to do something like that for me. If Luthor’s dangerous than you’re in far more danger than me, especially if he figures out you’re spying on him.”

“It’s not just for you, I do find him intellectually stimulating,” Bruce defended himself. Clark’s eyebrows shot up.

“Intellectually stimulating?” 

“Yes,” Bruce sighed, “And I’m in no danger of being found out by him. As intelligent as he is he’s no detective. He can barely figure out what his father’s up to, much less me. To be honest though, he is starting to annoy me. I’ll probably have to break it off soon for the sake of my sanity. I might stick around to see what dear old dad’s up to, but I might just break up with him and hack the company instead. It’ll probably be much less of a headache all things considered,” Bruce muttered. Clark was still agape. There was the naivete back in play. The midwestern mentality that sex was important and nothing to be flipiant about. The suggestion of some light corporate espionage probably hadn’t helped.

“So you’re sleeping with Lex Luthor in order to uncover criminal activity committed by his father, and hopefully get him arrested, in addition to keeping him off my scent, and because you find him, to use your words, ‘intellectually stimulating?’” Clark asked. Bruce shrugged. 

“Technically, yes. I mean, I do sort of like him, at least in the beginning I did, but more or less, yeah.” 

Clark scoffed, “You have problems.” 

Wasn’t that the truth. 

“Hey! You’re the martian here!” Bruce shot back, on the edge of laughter. Clark grinned at him.

“Want to see my spaceship?” 

The shock was mostly gone, the warmth had returned to Bruce’s system, and with it the truest sense of friendship he’d ever known. He and Clark knew everything about each other. They were privy to secrets so large and outlandish that they could destroy lives, and they kept them for each other. They trusted each other completely and beyond measure. Bruce had never felt so full of life before. 

“Hell yes I do,” he said. He shot up out of the chair, the blanket falling down around him, and followed Clark down to the storm cellar underneath the barn. 

Clark opened the cellar door and together they stepped down into the darkness. Clark turned on the small bulb hanging from the ceiling, and ripped away the canvas covering the large mound that must be his ship. Bruce gasped as he stared at the thing. It was an egg shaped grayish blue ship, covered in what looked like metallic scales. The enormity of what he was seeing hit him suddenly, and he was forced to sit heavily, almost falling against the stairs.

“That’s a spaceship,” he said, breathless. Clark nodded.

“Uh huh.”

“You- you’re from outer space.” 

“Yup.”

Bruce swallowed hard and stood. He stepped closer to the ship, and his eyes roved over it, examining every nook and cranny. He reached out his hand and let his fingers slide over the scales. They were smooth, with soft ridges making them look like scallop shells. They were definitely more gray than blue upon closer inspection, though at one end of the ship there was a large purple section with spotted swirls that looked like an octopus’s tentacles all wrapped up in a circle. 

“This is real,” Bruce breathed. Clark nodded.

“Everything is,” he said. Bruce turned to look at him, wonder swimming in his eyes. 

“This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Clark smiled.

“There’s more,” he said. He turned around and picked something up off the table before handing it to Bruce. It was heavy and solid in his hands. He removed the cloth wrappings to reveal a silver slab of metal. It looked almost like a large flash drive without any sort of casing. On either edge there were long vertical lines of symbols. It must have been writing, but it was unlike any writing Bruce had ever seen. It consisted mostly of basic shapes and lines stacked together to form language. Bruce stared in awe. 

“Is this-?” He trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words.

“I don’t know what it says, but it came with the ship. Whatever it is, it’s the language of my people,” Clark confirmed. Bruce stared back down at it. 

“And you haven’t deciphered it?” 

“My dad tried years ago, when they first found me, but he was never able to do it. He only told me about all this a few days ago. I haven’t had time to try.” 

Bruce licked his lips anxiously. 

“Do you mind if I try?” He asked. Clark grinned. 

“Of course not. Dad doesn’t really want any of this stuff leaving the cellar, but if you want to copy the writing down you’re free to try to translate.” 

Bruce’s mind was already whirling with ideas. He removed the more obvious connections like Asian languages immediately, their symbols contained too many lines while Clark’s alien language seemed to rely more on circles and triangles. He began a mental list of the research he would need to delve into in order to even begin translating the language.

Clark retrieved a notebook and pen from the loft and Bruce copied the script. Then he put it back on the table and they locked up the cellar. 

“Want to stay over tonight?” Clark asked as they made their way out of the barn and back to the house. Bruce grinned up at him.

“Why not?”

\----

With the weight of their biggest secrets off their shoulders, Clark and Bruce were once again thick as thieves and nigh inseparable. Bruce got over the rejection he felt asking Clark to homecoming, and moved on. He had the alien writing to focus on now, and focus he did. It took him several days to compile a list of languages with similar structures and symbols, but once he had he rushed over to the Kent’s and burst through the kitchen door. 

“Clark!” He’d entered to see the Kent family sitting down to lunch together. “Ok, it appears to be most similar to Cree writing in symbology, though Cree writing is horizontal, so clearly there’s some structural issues there, so I’ve been looking into Egyptian hieroglyphics too, because that appears to have a somewhat similar language structure, and- what?” He asked, finally looking up to see three sets of eyes trained on him, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. 

“Clark, son, what is Bruce talking about?” Jonathan asked, definitely concerned, though not quite sure how concerned to be. 

“Oh, well, Bruce saw me use my powers on homecoming night, so I told him,” Clark said, almost sheepishly. Jonathan’s eyebrows shot to his forehead.

“Everything?” 

“Everything,” Clark confirmed.

Jonathan turned back to Bruce. 

“And you’ve been looking into the writing from the ship?” He asked. Bruce nodded. Jonathan shifted in his seat, clearly deciding what to do with this new information. 

“And you said Cree language and hieroglyphics?” 

Bruce nodded.

“I never tried either of those,” Jonathan admitted. Bruce grinned. 

“Lucky for you I’m a genius with an extensive language background,” Bruce said. He joined them all at the table and laid out what he’d discovered so far. 

\----

After that it all came together more or less seamlessly. The Kent’s knew that Bruce knew, and they accepted that. They trusted him to keep Clark’s secret, and more than that they trusted him with the deciphering of the language of Clark’s homeworld, something Bruce took very seriously. 

Bruce liked to help Clark practice with his powers as well. Not that Clark needed all that much practice. He was skilled with them, very skilled, but Bruce like to watch him use them. He liked to watch Clark carry hay bales around the farm as if they were pieces of paper. He liked to play basketball using the net behind the house, and try his damndest to get around Clark’s superspeed, to no avail. 

One night he even asked Clark to lift his car, just to see if he could. The joke was on him when moments later, Clark was holding Bruce’s convertible over his head like it was nothing. 

“What does that even feel like?” Bruce asked, the awe evident in his voice.

“It’s kind of like holding a cardboard box above my head. I can feel the pressure of it in my hands, but it’s lightweight, like it’s empty and I’m just holding a tin shell.” 

Bruce was endlessly fascinated, and started asking Clark to lift all kinds of things. Martha had to put her foot down when Bruce became so bold as to ask Clark if he thought he could lift a house. 

They grew closer than they had ever been, now with this massive secret between them. They were the only ones who knew. Now when Chloe nattered on about her wall of weird, Bruce examined it more critically, and began compiling a list of events that were connected to the meteor storm and therefore more likely to be real, and another list of things that were likely unrelated. He began to ask Clark if they should look into them, but Clark didn’t think so. 

“We need to take things one step at a time, Bruce. I don’t know anything about the meteors, or how they affected people. I don’t even know if these are problems I can solve. I need to figure myself out before I go around trying to figure everyone else out,” he’d said. When Bruce reminded Clark of how well he’d handled Jeremy, Clark just gave him a look that told him to drop it. 

Bruce began to look into them on his own then, sometimes with Chloe, only telling her the bare minimum of information. She was delighted to have someone else believe her. Bruce was delighted to have something more interesting than high school calculus to focus his intellect on. 

Bruce still visited Lex on Thursdays, though it was strictly on Thursdays, and most of the time they only worked on the plant, not on each other. Clark didn’t like it though, Bruce could tell. 

“It’s not that I don’t like the guy, I just think you could do so much better,” Clark argued. 

“He’s a billionaire, Clark, I think most people would qualify that as the best.” 

“Yeah, but so are you! You don’t need the money, you need a better person, a person who will care about you like Lex doesn’t.”

Bruce didn’t want to tell him that he’d had someone better in mind, but that person didn’t care about him either, not romantically at least. Bruce would take what he could get. 

Either way his rendezvous with Lex clearly upset Clark, and so even though Clark knew it was still happening, Bruce stopped talking about it. He didn’t mention Lex to Clark, and he certainly didn’t talk about their more indecent escapades. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was several more weeks before football rotated back into their topics of conversation. Pete had been playing since signing up earlier in the year, and Chloe had been tracking his progress while at the same time writing a tell all expose on the Smallville football team. She’d finally published it just as the season was winding to a close, and all the important games were upcoming. The title of the paper was big and bold and brutal “Football: Sport or Abuse?” Bruce had read through the whole article and found it both insightful and enjoyable. Clark was mostly unsure and Pete was decidedly against Chloe’s portrayal of his beloved sport. 

They were walking up the steps toward class while Clark read the paper. 

“So what do you think?” Chloe asked. 

“I think it’s brilliant,” Bruce said loftily from his place at Clark’s side. 

“I think you need to seriously decrease your cappuccino dependency,” Clark snarked. Pete snickered a laugh, and Bruce shoved Clark’s shoulder.

“Ignore them Chloe, they’re imbecilic pig headed heathens,” he said, raising an eyebrow in Clark’s decidedly amused direction. 

“That’s a lot of big words for eight am,” Pete snickered. Bruce shot him a withering glare and took a pointed sip of his own cappuccino. Chloe rolled her eyes.

“Pete thinks I’m being too hard on Coach Walt,” she said. Pete sighed.

“I mean, the man coached my dad, all my brothers; he used to come over and watch the Super Bowl,” he said. This time it was Bruce’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Ah yes, the Super Bowl, the pinnacle of human achievement. You know if you put a half time show in the Nobel prize ceremony they’d probably televise that, too,” Bruce said. Pete shot him a flat look and Chloe snorted a laugh. 

“Look, Pete, while I’m touched by you and Coach Walt’s Hallmark moment, you don’t get points for subtlety in journalism. I’ve already started getting hate mail,” she said it like it was a badge of honor. Clark shot her a look like she was crazy. 

“You seem very happy about that. Why?” He asked. 

“Because it means I’m hitting a nerve. Besides, between the abysmal sentence structure, and generous use of obscenities I’ve got a pretty good idea of who’s been sending it,” she said. Bruce grinned. 

“Really? I’m surprised they can even form sentences in the first place. What do you think, has your intellectual excellence suffered at the rigidly calloused hands of the false deity of the pigskin?” He asked. Pete tried to shove at him, but Bruce danced out of the way. He would probably be a good football player himself, if he were being honest, but it wasn’t for him. He was more about academics. If there were going to be any athletics on his record it would be the self-defense kind. It’s not that they were the only worthwhile form of athleticism, only that they were the most useful, and Bruce was all about practicality. 

“Shut up Bruce, and Chloe, if you think my teammates are reading the Torch, you’re giving them way too much credit,” Pete said, a small smile on his face. Bruce smiled, and shoved back into their strutting line between Pete and Clark. He snatched the paper from Clark’s hands and looked back over the cover. 

“Whatever the case Chloe I think you did an excellent job here. In fact I think you should apply to the Gotham Gazette when you graduate, I know people in places if you need references,” he shot her a wink and she snorted. 

“That rag? No chance. It’s all about the Daily Planet for me,” she said. Bruce sighed a truly tragic dramatized sigh, unaware that Clark was lagging behind, his attention caught on something else. 

“Well that’s too bad, but I respect your decision. I’ll try again later once you’ve won a Pulitzer or two.” 

Chloe only rolled her eyes. They were about to continue on when Bruce finally noticed Clark had stopped. He turned to see Clark watching Lana and Whitney arguing. Just as Bruce turned Lana shook her head and stormed off, right past the four of them. 

“Ooh, there’s something you don’t see everyday. A pom-pom meltdown,” Chloe laughed. Bruce laughed along, doing his best to ignore Clark’s eyes as they watched Lana stalk off in silent fury. Bruce shoved past Clark, shocking him out of Lana mode, and they continued walking toward class. Just as they headed for the door a swarm of football players walked outside. 

“Ooh, ooh, here they come. Pete, I need a picture of the cheating jockstraps,” Chloe said, tugging on his arm so he’d hand her the camera he was holding. Bruce turned to watch them as Coach Walt began to talk about the cheating scandal. 

“Any idea how they got that midterm, Chloe?” Bruce asked. Chloe shook her head. She held her camera up to her face and began to set up a photo. 

“Still a mystery, but I’m working on it,” she said as she began to take pictures. Bruce saw one of the football players turn, and felt his stomach drop when they noticed her with the camera pointed at them. The player raised his right arm and threw the football straight at her. Bruce realized a second too late what he was intending to do, and only turned in time to see Clark catch the ball in his fist, inches from Chloe’s camera. 

“Ooh, nice catch,” Pete said, impressed. Bruce shot Clark a flat look, who in turn gave Bruce a small secret smile. 

“One of your teammates attempts to assassinate me, and all you can say is nice catch?” Chloe snapped, her playful mood quickly turning sour as she stormed off headed in the direction of her next class. 

“I thought you wanted to hit a nerve?” Pete laughed, running after her. 

“You know, you might try to be more discrete,” Bruce said, stepping closer to Clark. “Now that I know why you can do the things you can do I wonder how I never noticed before.” 

Clark shrugged. 

“I wasn’t going to let it hit her,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Bruce fought to keep the besotted look off his face, and told himself that it was what anyone would do if given the chance and the ability. Clark threw the football back at the player who’d thrown it at Chloe. He threw it with just a little too much strength, and swallowed a smirk when Bruce scoffed at him.

“Oh, right, and the justification for that?” He asked as they turned and walked away. 

“He deserved it?” Clark suggested. Bruce rolled his eyes, and pulled Clark along inside. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re terrible, Clark Kent?” 

“It’s not something I’ve ever been accused of, no.” 

“Stupid All-American boy, you’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days.” 

“How can I with you by my side ready to talk me out of it?” Clark asked, a big white grin on his face. Bruce rolled his eyes, but found he couldn’t argue with that. 

They stepped inside and headed for their lockers. Bruce adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and turned to Clark. 

“Are you upset that you can’t play football?” He asked. Clark shrugged.

“I mean, not particularly. I’d like to be able to do something normal and high school like for once, and my dad was on the football team so it would be nice to be able to continue the tradition, but I’m not crazy upset or anything. I’m more disappointed than anything else,” he said. Bruce frowned. It was true that Clark had never really done any school sports, not as long as Bruce had known him anyway. Bruce had always wondered why, but now that he knew he understood. He was sorry that Clark had never had the opportunity to do what he wanted, but at the end of the day his life was more important than whether or not Smallville High wins the state championships, which they for sure would with Clark on their team. Any athletic team would win with Clark on their team, but football would probably be especially good. 

“Well, if it helps, I’m glad you’re not on the team. It leaves more time for you to dazzle me with your spectacular feats of strength Mr. Mars,” he smiled. Clark shushed him, but he had a smile on his face, too. 

“Quiet, you never know who’s listening.”

“To two losers like us? The audacity.” 

Clark grinned as they continued on towards Clark’s locker, but were stopped by Pete, who was attempting to get a bag of chips out of the vending machine. 

“Hey, Bruce, can you trade me a dollar? This one isn’t working,” Pete said, holding up a wrinkled dollar bill. 

“Sure.” Bruce dug around in his bag until he found his wallet, and pulled out a crisp dollar bill, which he traded for Pete’s wrinkled one. Pete was just about to put the dollar in, when Coach Walt walked up to them. 

“Hey, Kent,” he said, and Bruce immediately went on guard. “I saw your arm out there. Technique was lousy but you’ve got a lot of power.”

“Thanks,” Clark said, a winning Clark Kent smile plastered on his too easily flattered face. 

“So why aren’t you on our team?” Coach Walt asked. 

“My dad needs me on the farm,” Clark said, his tone noticeably deflated. Coach Walt did not take that lying down, and immediately launched into a speech about how much the school needed Clark, he made appeals to Clark’s sense of family and Bruce had to choke down a laugh when Coach Walt told him it was in his genes, and Clark reluctantly informed him that he was adopted. 

“Now why don’t you suit up? Look at Ross, he doesn’t have a lick of natural talent, but he’s got a truckload of heart,” Coach Walt said. Bruce bristled, and shot Coach Walt a glare, which he pointedly ignored. He’d ignored Bruce the entire time they’d been talking, in fact. Like Bruce was about as interesting as the long abandoned vending machine. Bruce had grown a healthy dislike for the man based solely on Chloe’s article, but seeing him in person was certainly not helping matters. He was an asshole, to say the least, and he seemed to care for nothing other than football. It was no surprise to Bruce now that the football team wasn’t being penalized for the stolen midterm exam answers, because clearly Coach Walt didn’t care how his players got their passing grades, as long as they got them. 

“Let me think about it,” Clark tried, and Bruce bit his tongue to keep from interrupting. 

“Fordman, get over here,” Coach Walt called Whitney over, who had the ever-present Lana hanging off his precisely muscled shoulder. 

“Hey, Clark,” she said. Bruce rolled his eyes, and could only barely stop himself from leaving while the Coach asked Whitney what he thought of Clark. It was clear to Bruce now more than ever that he was _not_ part of the conversation, and were he to leave right then, no one would notice. Bruce bit back the hurt and waited until Clark had given Coach Walt his assurances that he would join the team, and the Coach left. 

“Hey, Clark,” Pete said. “Remind me what your dad said last time you asked him to play?” 

“He said no,” Clark said, sheepishly. 

“He said no. That’s what I thought. Call me when the hurtings done, okay?” Pete clapped Clark on the shoulder and walked off. Bruce crossed his arms, and waited silently until Clark turned back to look at him. 

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Clark said. Bruce raised his eyebrows.

“Have I? I’m surprised you noticed with Lana Lang and all that shiny bright football star power clouding your field of vision,” he said. Clark frowned. 

“Bruce-” 

“No, look, Clark. I was silent because I don’t even need to bother speaking around people like them. I fade into the background, and that’s fine, because if there’s one thing I’m not it’s insecure, but I don’t think you should be doing this.”

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re dad’s right. This is dangerous. You can control yourself, _I_ know that, but other people can’t. It’s not about whether or not you hurt somebody, it’s about whether or not they try to hurt you and they can’t. What if some three hundred pound meat head tries to throw you out of his way, and you don’t even budge? Or if someone crashes into you and you both fall to the ground, him injured in five different places, and you without a scratch? I trust you to be careful, Clark, but there are too many risks, and I don’t think you should be taking them. If you want to do something a typical high school kid would do, why don’t you try something a little less physical? Chloe has the Torch, I have the mathletes, there has to be something else you’d like to try.” 

Clark frowned. He shook his head. 

“Bruce, I was already this year’s scarecrow. If I do something like join the mathletes I’m socially screwed for life. I’m good at this, and I want to try it,” Clark insisted. Bruce frowned.

“Athletics aren’t everything, Clark.”

“Bruce, no offense, but I’d like to make it through my senior year as something more than a social outcast and a complete nobody.”

“Like me?”

“That’s not what I-”

“I’m a mathlete. I don’t play sports. I’m not even from here, and Smallville is too small a town for anyone to ever forget that. I’ve always been a social outcast, Clark. You never seemed to mind before. Is it Lana? Do you think you’ll never get to see what color panties she wears if you never strap on a jockstrap so tight it cuts off the blood flow to your brain?” Bruce snapped. Clark sucked in a breath. 

“I know you’re upset but that doesn’t give you the right to be crass,” he said. Bruce shook his head. 

“Forget it, Clark. You want to ruin your life over a football and a cheerleader go ahead. I’m going to go to class.” Bruce walked off just as the bell rang, leaving a clearly upset Clark behind him. 

\----

Clark declined a ride home from Bruce, given that they were still in a fight, so Bruce didn’t get to see the knock down drag out fight between Clark and his dad over something so trivial as football, but when he arrived later that night for dinner and an apology he got to see the messy, messy aftershocks. Dinner was a tense affair, with the four of them sitting around Martha’s pot roast with survivors guilt like they were at a funeral. Bruce was halfway through his slice of the roast before anyone said a word. 

“So, Bruce, what do you think of Coach Walt, and this whole football thing?” Jonathan asked, clearly looking for an ally in the form of Clark’s best friend. Clark was glaring at his roast, and Bruce felt guilty for letting him down. He was hurt by what Clark had said, he couldn’t deny it, but Clark was right, he’d gone a little too far with what he’d said about Lana. 

“I don’t trust the coach, and I don’t like the idea,” he said. He saw Clark clench his jaw, and ploughed on. “But I trust Clark’s judgement. If he thinks he can play, then I say at least give him the chance. If it turns out to be too much he can always quit. No harm no foul,” Bruce said. Clark looked up with him, a pitifully thankful look in his eye, and Jonathan sighed. 

“I still don’t like it,” he said. Bruce could see Clark gearing up for another fight, and so Bruce cut him off before things could get too ugly. 

“You don’t have to. If things don’t work out, they don’t work out and you’re proven right. If they do work out then you have one more thing to be proud of Clark for. It’s a win win in my eyes,” Bruce said. Jonathan sighed.

“You always were the practical one.” 

Bruce shrugged. 

“I still don’t like it, but it’s not like I can stop you,” he said, and that appeared to be that. The subject was closed for the time being, and none of them brought it up again. 

After dinner Bruce and Clark went to Clark’s room where Bruce laid out on the bed, and Clark sat at the desk. Bruce picked up Chloe’s latest edition of the Torch from where it lay on the floor of Clark’s room, and Clark picked through his backpack until he found his homework. 

“Thank you for saying that, even though I know you don’t believe it,” Clark said, his eyes on Bruce. Bruce refused to look at him. 

“I mean everything I say. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Still, it was nice of you to say.”

“Yeah, well.” 

There was a long tense pause, before Clark sighed. 

“Look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier today, the mathletes and the social outcast thing. I don’t think any of that is true, and I’d be honored to be smart enough to be on the mathletes-”

“You are,” Bruce cut in, still not looking up from the paper. Clark shook his head. 

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry, Bruce. And that stuff you said, about you fading into the background? That’s not true. I always know you’re there, and I’d miss you if you were gone. Look, Lana- Lana’s just a girl. You’re my best friend. Always have been, always will be. I’d be lost without you, Bruce.”

Only then did Bruce look up, his eyes just over the top of the paper. 

“I know I may seem like a bit of an idiot when it comes to Lana, but you’re more important to me than she is, okay? I- Jesus, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. The point is, you matter. So don’t ever say you don’t. Okay?” 

After a moment Bruce nodded lightly and dipped his head back behind the paper, unwilling to let on just how moved he was. He mattered more to Clark than Lana did. Clark had said that, and he didn’t usually say things he didn’t mean. Maybe Bruce didn’t need to be so worried all the time. That didn’t necessarily mean, of course, that Clark felt anything for him, but it did mean that Bruce was important to him, and that was something, at least. 

“Thanks, Clark,” he said, voice muffled by the newspaper. Bruce didn’t see it, but he could tell when Clark smiled. 

\----

The next day was Thursday, and it found Bruce lounging in one of Lex Luthor’s many sitting rooms while he waited for Lex to finish his fencing lesson. They were supposed to be working on the company again today, and Bruce was working on a budgetary plan that Lex found extremely promising. Bruce was sitting there, idle, when three sharp looking men in suits made their way into Lex’s office. Everything about them screamed henchmen, and Bruce had to guess that they were probably sent by Lionel Luthor. Bruce and Lex had slowly been unravelling his hold on the Smallville branch, but it was tiresome grueling work. Work that Bruce didn’t particularly enjoy doing, though it was definitely worth the information he now had access to thanks to Lex. 

“Here for Lex?” Bruce asked, doing his best to look as bimbo-esque as possible. It wouldn’t do for Lionel to know who exactly was sitting in his mansion, learning all too much about his company. Luckily Bruce had been out of the tabloids since he was eight, so it was unlikely any of the three henchmen would know who he was. One of the three henchmen nodded, a look of disdain on his face as he glanced at Bruce. 

Just then Lex strolled in, a towel over his shoulder and dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He shot a swift glance at Bruce lounging languidly on his sette, and immediately turned to look at the henchmen. 

“Well if it isn’t the three wise men. Hello _Dominic_ ,” he said sharply as he passed the one who’d nodded at Bruce a moment ago. 

“I’m assuming you’re running late because you’ve been in a fencing lesson, or have you taken up polo again?” Dominic asked, a posh British accent solidifying his henchman status. Lex chuckled fakely. 

“I’m not running late. I cancelled this meeting if you recall. I had more pressing concerns,” he said, as he shot Bruce a wink that made Bruce chuckle and only seemed to infuriate Dominic all the more. 

“Yes, I can see that. Very pressing concerns indeed. Nevertheless your father insisted that we drive down here and keep it.” 

“Mm, and when he barks, you jump,” Lex taunted him, taking a swig from his brand water bottle. 

“Have you seen the quarterly numbers?” Dominic asked. This is where Bruce chose to tune them out. He’d seen the quarterly numbers himself, and had a feeling where this conversation was going. Dominic was going to get urgent about their need to do something, and Lex was going to talk around him until he finally gave up, all without revealing an inch of their plan to increase the plant’s income, without cutting the pristine work force they’d set up earlier in the year. 

“You’re father sent you to Smallville to turn the plant around,” Dominic snapped, the lid on his temper snapping off. Lex walked forward, until he was just in Dominic’s face. 

“My father sent me to Smallville because he’d rather surround himself with drones than people who challenge his archaic business practices,” Lex shot back. 

“I’ll be certain to tell him that,” Dominic said. 

“Please do,” Lex replied, a small smile on his face. “Now, this meeting is adjourned.” 

Dominic’s lips thinned and he began to walk away, but before he could make it out the door Lex spoke up one last time. 

“By the way, Dominic.” He waited until Dominic stopped in his tracks. “Tell your sister I say hi.”

Bruce snorted a laugh as Dominic took one last look at a smirking Lex, before storming out of the room. 

“You sure showed him,” Bruce said sarcastically. Lex turned to him from where he stood by the pool table. 

“You think so?” 

“I think that while henchman number one might fall for it, your petty schoolboy pigtail pulling isn’t going to get you very far with your father.” 

Lex shrugged. “I can deal with my father when the time comes,” he said. 

Bruce nodded, “Good, because I think it’s time we ended this little arrangement of ours.” 

Lex shot him a very surprised look. 

“What?” He asked. 

“Well you see I’ll be graduating soon enough, and while working for Luthor Corp is truly riveting,” Lex smirked at Bruce’s sarcasm, “I find that it’s not quite for me. Plus, I’ve done what I said I would. I helped you find the right people to hire, I helped you figure out a plan to get the plant back up to quarterly projections, and most importantly I’ve helped you loosen your father’s grip on you and your small little corner of the world. My work here is more or less done, and I’ve got more important things to worry about now.”

“Yeah? Like what?” 

“My company. My future. I may have fixed your problem, but that doesn’t mean I’m free and clear of corporate work. I’d like to enjoy what’s left of my senior year without the pressure of hundreds of lives and a stock market crash if I don’t do my job right,” Bruce said. Not to mention he had Clark to worry about, and if Clark was going to start taking stupid risks then it was probably time Brue stopped taking them. 

Lex sighed, and turned back to look at the pool table. 

“You’re really set on this?” He asked. Bruce nodded.

“I am.” 

“Well then I’ll consider this your two weeks.”

“You never actually paid me, you know.”

Lex smirked and turned back to look at Bruce. 

“No, you got something much better than money.” 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just flattering yourself. I should go before your ego explodes from over inflation and kills us both.” 

Bruce stood to leave, but Lex stopped him before he could. 

“We never did christen the pool table, you know,” he said. Bruce glanced down at the green felt, and thought about Clark saying he was more important to him than Lana Lang. 

“That’s too bad, I suppose you and your next bimbo can start there, then. Just to make sure you don’t miss it a second time.” Bruce patted Lex on the cheek placatingly. 

“Goodbye Lex,” he said. 

“Bruce,” Lex replied as he watched Bruce walk right out the door. 

\----

The next day found Bruce sitting next to Jonathan Kent on the bleachers after school, waiting for Clark to walk out onto the field with the rest of the team. 

“I don’t like this,” Jonathan said, not for the first time. Not even for the first time that day. 

“I know,” Bruce sighed. “But he’s going to be here either way, at least this way we can watch him.” 

Jonathan nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Bruce was a little surprised at the effect this was having on him. 

“Why does this bother you so much, aside from the obvious?” He asked. Jonathan heaved a deep sigh, and looked out onto the field.

“Clark doesn’t understand what will happen if he’s found out. If government agents, or mad scientists, or whoever come down here and find an actual bonafide alien from outer space. An alien with super strength, speed, and who’s invulnerable. He’ll be experimented on at best, made into a weapon probably. All that and more, and at the end of the day, it would mean losing my son, letting him be hurt, tortured, used, all because he wanted to play in a stupid high school football game. I can’t lose my son because of something so trivial, so stupid. This isn’t worth him, but he doesn’t see it like that. He’s too naive. He doesn’t understand that there are people out there who won’t just hurt him, they’ll want to hurt him.”

Bruce nodded, “You don’t want him to have to understand that, do you? Even if at the end of the day it means that you’ll have to be the bad guy.” 

“I’ll be the bad guy for five minutes if it means that Clark never has to see a real bad guy.” 

Bruce frowned, but found he couldn’t argue with that logic.

Moments later Clark walked out onto the field, in his bright red number 89 jersey. He looked over and spotted Bruce and Jonathan sitting on the bleachers side by side. 

“Dad, Bruce” Clark called, walking over to them wearing a stupidly bright grin. Bruce truly felt for Jonathan. It must be terrible seeing his son this happy, knowing that it could only end badly. 

“I’m glad you’re here, it means a lot to me,” Clark said, clearly speaking to his father. Bruce gave him an encouraging smile, and was pleased to see a returned warmth in Clark’s eyes. 

“I still don’t support your decision, Clark. I’m here to see that no one gets hurt.” 

The smile slid right off of Clark’s face, and was replaced with a truly devastating frown. 

“Good luck, Clark,” Bruce said. Clark shot him a small smile, but it barely reached his lips, much less his eyes. Clark walked off and began practice. 

The practice was brutal, with Clark going down in the first play under a pile of guys. Bruce winced, and was reminded that even though the coach liked him, the players didn’t have to, and indeed they didn’t, if the scarecrow incident was anything to go by. At least Clark was controlling his strength. 

Bruce leaned forward in his seat when suddenly Coach Walt grabbed Clark’s helmet and started yelling at him. 

“I really hate that guy,” Bruce muttered. Jonathan snorted. 

“He’s only gotten worse with age if you ask me,” he said. 

Clark shook it off, and the boys set up the play a second time. Bruce held the edge his bench in a white knuckled grip, and waited for the tackling to begin a second time, only this time Clark wasn’t tackled immediately. Instead he took the football, and ran across the field, plowing through players, knocking them aside like bowling pins as he made his way to the end zone. Clark threw the football to the ground, and Jonathan stood up to leave. 

“You’re leaving?” Bruce asked, knowing full well how devastated Clark would be. 

“I can’t watch this. Besides, you’re keeping an eye on him,” Jonathan said. He walked off without another word. Bruce turned back to the field, a distressed look on his face as he watched Clark turn to look at them. He couldn’t see his expression from under the helmet, but he doubted it was at all pleased. 

Bruce waited in the bleachers for the rest of practice. He got out his notes and his books, and he worked his way through that night’s homework as he waited for Clark to be done. He kept an eye on the practice, but it looked like Clark more or less had things handled. The players didn’t seem all that happy with him, especially now that he’d turned out to be a bit of a pro at the game, but he was controlling his strength, and so far hadn’t done anything an oddly but acceptably strong seventeen year old could do. Bruce could feel the frown lines developing in his forehead, and began to wonder if all this needless worrying was worth it. He sighed and shifted his attention back to his chemistry homework. Clark was a big boy, he could handle himself. 

When the sun began to sink in the sky, and the light became insufficient to do anymore work, Bruce packed up his things. He wasn’t sure whether he should go inside and continue working, or just stay and watch the practice until it had ended. He was the only one left in the stands anyway. 

Just as he was about to make up his mind, Coach Walt blew his whistle and called for practice to be over. Bruce stepped stood up, and stepped down to the last bleacher. He decided to wait and ask Clark where they would be able to meet when Clark left the locker room. 

Clark jogged up to him, and Bruce was surprised to see that Clark didn’t smell bad. It figured that part of his alien DNA meant he didn’t sweat. 

“Hey, what’d you think?” Clark asked. He pulled off his helmet, and with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the matted mess of hair, and the soft flush of activity on his cheeks, Bruce decided football was a good look on Clark. 

“You looked great out there. We can talk about it tonight. I can stay over?” Bruce asked. Clark nodded vigorously. 

“Yeah, of course! I’d love to hear what you think of it all. Um, do you know why my dad left?”

Bruce swallowed hard. 

“He said he had to go back to the farm. He said there was an emergency with the tractor or something. I’m sure he wanted to stay,” Bruce lied. He cursed himself and wondered when he’d gotten so bad at lying. Or maybe it was just that he was bad at lying to Clark. 

Clark frowned. It was clear he didn’t believe a word Bruce said, but he didn’t say anything else. 

“All right, well, I’m just going to go change then we can head home. Meet me out back?” 

Bruce nodded. 

“Sure.” 

“Great, see later.” Clark walked off in the direction of the locker room, his shoulders noticeably drooped and a frown firmly fixed to his face. 

Bruce was about to leave when Whitney Fordman stepped up where Clark had just been standing. Bruce sighed.

“What do you want, Whitney?” He asked. Whitney considered him for a moment. 

“Are you fucking Kent?” He asked. Bruce shot him a vicious glare. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” He asked. 

“You stayed all practice for him. Lana doesn’t even do that for me when she doesn’t have practice,” Whitney said. Bruce didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t exactly tell Whitney that he’d been waiting to see if Clark could control his alien super strength. And even if he had been able to it wasn’t really the whole truth. Jonathan had left, and Clark had taken it personally. Bruce hadn’t wanted to leave Clark, too. He wanted to stay, be supportive, make sure Clark knew that there was somebody in his corner, but it’s not like he was going to say that to Whitney, either. 

“He’s my best friend. I’m supporting him,” Bruce said sharply. Whitney snorted. 

“Sure, look, I don’t give a shit if you and Kent are fucking. If anything I’m relieved, because that means he’s not going after my girl. So keep your secret or whatever, but I’m not going to give you guys up. Okay?” 

Bruce, with nothing else to say, nodded. It was better the leave Whitney thinking that they were together than to give him another reason to go after Clark. Whitney simply nodded and walked off to the locker room. 

Bruce pulled together his bag and the last shreds of his pride, and left the bleachers. 

\----

Bruce was leaning up against the wall, waiting when Pete and Clark finally left the building. He kicked off the wall, and walked up to them just in time to hear Clark tell Pete that Jonathan had left to go back to the farm. Bruce frowned, but didn’t comment. 

“Hey, ready for your personal chauffeur to take you home?” Bruce asked. Clark smiled a tired smile, but before he could reply they heard muffled screaming coming from behind them. Bruce whipped around to see a car on fire. 

“Go get help!” Clark snapped, not even taking a second to see that Pete left before taking off his backpack and running toward the car. Bruce hurried Pete along, and made sure he was behind closed doors when Clark ripped the door off the burning car, and pulled a man from inside. Clark ran from the car, and was clear when it finally exploded in a massive burst of light and white hot flame. Bruce was thrown back with the force of the explosion, and landed hard on his messenger bag. 

“Bruce! You okay?” He heard Clark shout. He groaned and rolled over on his side, pulling his freshly bruised ribs away from the hard ridges of his book filled bag, and nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he coughed, a shooting pain stabbing at him from his lower back. Clark stood up, and looked over the man who’d been trapped in the car, which at closer inspection turned out to be Principal Kwan. Bruce narrowed his eyes and frowned. What was Kwan doing trapped in a burning car? Surely he would have noticed when the car caught fire and had time to get out? And even so, how _had_ the car caught fire? It was still cool, too cool for spontaneous combustion, and as far as Bruce knew there was very little that could be wrong enough with a car for it to catch fire, not without some other warning signs first. 

Moments later Pete ran back outside. 

“I called the police!” He shouted. Clark shot him a thumbs up, and looked over at Bruce. 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked. Bruce nodded, arm around his ribs. 

“Just a bruise, I’m fine,” he said. Clark frowned, but didn’t argue. 

They settled in to wait for the police to arrive. 

\----

It took them almost two more hours to get home, what with waiting for the police, being checked out by the paramedics, and driving all the way back to the farm. Clark drove while Bruce spent almost the entire ride home on the phone with Alfred, assuring him that yes he was fine, and yes he’d get Martha to check him over when he got to the Kent’s house. It was pitch black when they arrived back at the house, and Bruce was honestly surprised when he didn’t see Jonathan Kent standing outside waiting for them. After putting the car in park Clark just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, silent. Bruce watched him with a frown. 

“What is it?” He asked. 

“He could’ve died in that car,” Clark said. 

“But he didn’t, thanks to you,” Bruce replied. Clark nodded. 

“I know,” he said. It was almost like it was a revelation for him. Like he hadn’t realized just how much good he could do with his powers. He’d been so against anything that might put him in the spotlight, make his parents worry, or cause problems for his family and friends, but now it appeared like he was rethinking his life. 

“I told you, you could do a lot of good with these powers,” Bruce said. Clark nodded. 

“Yeah, maybe so,” he said, then he stood up and got out of the car. 

When they got inside Jonathan and Martha were waiting for them. The table was set for dinner, and Martha was on the phone. 

“She’s calling about Principle Kwan,” Jonathan said wryly around a half-chewed piece of chicken. Clark nodded, and he and Bruce sat to eat while they listened to Martha’s call. Her half of the conversation was mostly affirmations, and when she finally hung up she thanked the person on the other end. 

“Principle Kwan’s going to be in the hospital until over the weekend. He’s got some burns and he suffered some smoke inhalation, but he’s going to be okay,” she said, a smile on her face. Clark’s shoulders dropped in relief as the tension seeped out of him. The knot in Bruce’s stomach unclenched and he nodded.

“Good,” he said. 

“Anybody see you, son?” Jonathan asked, not looking up from his plate. Beside Bruce, Clark tensed as if readying himself for a fight. 

“Nobody saw me, dad. I told the paramedics that I wrapped my hands in my jacket when I pulled him out,” Clark insisted. 

“It’s true, Mr. Kent. I was there, there was nobody around, I made sure of it. And the paramedics didn’t suspect a thing,” Bruce agreed. 

“Lucky you were there,” Martha said, with a warning glance at her husband. 

“Right,” Clark muttered, stabbing aggressively at his chicken. Bruce shot Clark a concerned glance, and brushed his shoulder against Clark’s, in silent support. Clark smiled at him, and went back to his chicken.

“You know, Coach gave me your old position,” Clark said, smiling proudly in a poor attempt to change topic. “You’re looking at the starting tailback for this Friday’s game.” 

“Congratulations, Clark,” Bruce said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. Clark gave him a grateful smile. 

There was a long stretch of silence. 

“Don’t everyone congratulate me at once,” Clark said, staring directly at his father, who was still focused intently on his chicken. Jonathan set down his fork and scoffed. 

“Look, I saw you play, and you could have easily hurt any one of those boys. I’m not going to change my mind on this, Clark,” he said. There was fury written in every line on Clark’s face, all except his eyes. In those Bruce could see the deep hurt settling in. Clark set his fork down with a forceful clatter, scraped his chair back and stormed off outside, no doubt headed to the barn. Bruce swallowed one last piece of chicken, then carefully set his fork down. 

“It was a lovely meal Mrs. Kent. Clark and I were going to ask you earlier, but is it all right if I stay over tonight?” He asked. Martha nodded, a grateful smile on her face. 

“Of course, Bruce. You’re always welcome.” 

Bruce nodded his thanks, and then headed off in the direction of the barn. He found Clark in his usual place at the top of the stairs in the loft. The telescope was pointed straight out today, not quite at Lana’s, and not quite at the stars. 

Clark was sitting on the couch, his holding his bright red jersey in his hands. 

“This is a stupid fight,” he said. Bruce nodded, and carefully maneuvered his way to sit next to Clark on the couch. 

“I know, but it’s not really about the football, it’s about trust, and that’s not a stupid fight.” 

Clark didn’t reply. 

“Look, I know this is hard, and I know that not everyone agrees with you, but this is still your life Clark. Parents are here to make sure we don’t make mistakes, but they’re not always right. You’re dad is just doing what he thinks is best. What he’s doing is hurting you, and he knows it and that hurts too, but at the end of the day he’s just worried because he loves you. I think you both need to cut each other some slack.” 

Clark crumpled his jersey into a ball and threw it down onto the table. 

“I’m having fun, Bruce. That’s the problem. I understand the risk, but I’m having fun, and I don’t want to let that go. I know how selfish that sounds,” he said. Bruce shook his head, and picked up the jersey. 

“It’s not selfish to want something for yourself, nobody’s life should be entirely about pleasing other people. We’re allowed to want things for ourselves,” he said. Clark sighed and leaned back against the couch. 

“You know, Whitney Fordman thinks we’re dating. Secretly, of course,” Bruce said, in an effort to change the subject and pull Clark out of his funk. Clark looked sideways at him. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, he thinks that since I stayed the whole practice we must be sleeping together. Apparently Lana’s never done that for him.” 

“Huh,” Clark mused. He had a contemplative look on his face, and Bruce was both unable and unwilling to read his expressions. He didn’t want to know what Clark thought of this, because he didn’t want Clark to think of it as a bad thing, but then again, what would happen if Clark thought it was a good thing? 

“Yeah, isn’t this great? Now he won’t try to kill you on the field for trying to take his girlfriend from him,” Bruce said, trying to make light of it. Clark looked at him suddenly, complex emotions swimming in his eyes. 

“Right, yeah, Lana,” he murmured, unsure. There was a long uncomfortable silence wherein Clark sat silent, contemplative, and Bruce watched him like a hawk for any sign of a conclusion. 

“You know, it’s kind of funny that no one’s thought that before,” Clark said. Bruce’s eyebrows shot to his forehead.

“You think so?” 

“Yeah. I mean we do everything together.”

“We’re best friends,” Bruce suggested.

“Yeah, right, we are,” Clark agreed, but there was something to the way he said it, like there was more on his mind than the simple black and white solution of “best friends.” 

“What did you say?” Clark asked. 

“What?” 

“When Whitney said that, what did you say to him?”

Bruce found himself blanking. He was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t fought hard against the notion, especially now when presented with having to explain to Clark what he did and why.

“I told him we weren’t, together that is, but he didn’t believe me, and I didn’t want to tell him I was there to watch you for potential super powered outbursts,” he said. Clark frowned.

“That’s why you were there?” He asked. Bruce balked. 

“Well, I was there to support you. That and after your dad left you didn’t have a ride home,” he said defensively. Clark stared at him.

“Why didn’t you say that.”

“What?” 

“That you were there because you were my ride?” 

Again Bruce was at a loss. He didn’t know why he hadn’t just said that. Why he had let Whitney go on thinking they were more to each other than they really were. If he were being honest with himself it was because he wanted what Whitney thought to be true, but it wasn’t like he could tell Clark that.

“I didn’t think to,” Bruce said, looking down at the jersey in his hands. Clark scoffed. 

“Bruce Wayne didn’t think of something? What is the world coming to?”  
Bruce let out a light chuckle, and they laughed some of the awkwardness away. 

“I guess I must be losing my touch. Must be a lack of time spent with Lex Luthor.” 

Clark turned sharply to look at him.

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, well I told Lex that I’d have to stop seeing him. I finished the work I was doing there, and honestly the relationship wasn’t doing much for me. So I broke it off. I haven’t seen him since,” Bruce said. Clark burst into a big white grin. 

“Really?” He asked. 

“Yeah?” Bruce replied, mostly confused. “Why? What’s the big deal?”

“What? Oh, nothing. I guess I just think you can do better than him, and I’m glad you’re moving on,” Clark said, something just slightly shifty in his eyes. Bruce shook his head, and let it go. 

“I guess so,” he said. Clark wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and Bruce tried not to swoon over the thick corded muscle. 

“I know so. Now, come on, we’re going to have to find the air mattress and set it up before it gets too late. We still have school tomorrow, after all.” 

Bruce snorted in disbelief. 

“Clark Kent worried about staying up on a school night. What has the world come to indeed.” 

\----

The next day found them headed to the Talon after school with Pete and Chloe in tow. The Talon was still relatively new, and had only opened a few years after Bruce had moved to Smallville. It was beautiful, with tall Egyptian style pillars, lights strung along entrances, and a was colored in a decisive scheme of seemingly every shade of red and blue. Clark liked the ambiance of it, the kitschy decorations and the unique Egyptian style made it feel unlike anywhere else in Smallville. Bruce liked the coffee. 

Chloe was taking avidly about the fire that Clark had pulled Principle Kwan out of. She was insistent that there was something more going on, something they weren’t seeing. Bruce couldn’t argue with her, he’d had the same thoughts himself the night before. Cars didn’t just spontaneously combust, and out of all the cars there why Kwan’s? It almost appeared as if Kwan was being targeted, but who could have set the fire so late? Given the fact that the only people left in school that late were the football team and Bruce, it had to either be someone on the team, or someone who wanted them framed for it. Either way that meant the motive lay in football, something that didn’t necessarily surprise Bruce given how prolific it was in Smallville. If Kwan was the target, and football the motive, that probably meant that he was trying to root out the cheating players, and have them taken off the team. That was speculative, of course, and Bruce didn’t like to work off of speculation, but if it was a theory that could be proven, then that left the people with the greatest motives to be the players themselves, or Coach Walt himself, who was obsessed with his 200th win. Bruce hadn’t mentioned any of this to Clark, of course. He was worried what Clark would think of Bruce seemingly demonizing his teammates and his new coach. He would have to talk about it to Chloe, though, since she appeared to be thinking along the same lines. 

“I still can’t believe Clark’s been blinded by the Friday-night lights,” Chloe laughed as they stepped inside. 

“I joined a football team, not a cult,” Clark insisted. 

“Yeah, next thing you know I’m going to be joining the pom-pom brigade,” Chloe snarked back. Bruce snorted a laugh, but stopped when he was bumped into from behind by none other than Captain Pom-Pom herself, Lana Lang. 

“I hear there’s a spot open,” she said as she walked by dressed in an apron. 

“What is this? Some sort of a cheerleading charity, be a waitress for a night sort of thing?” Chloe asked. Bruce glared from behind them all as Clark walked past him with his eyes trained on Lana. 

“Yes it is, except for the cheerleading and charity parts, and tips are always appreciated,” she said as she set a tray down in order to serve a table. Bruce scoffed. 

“Fascinating fall from grace. From queen of the lowly educated masses to servant of the middle class,” he said. Clark shot him a glare, and Lana decidedly did not look at him.

“Looks like it, yeah,” she said. Bruce crossed his arms. He decided it was much less fun when people refused to rise to his verbal jest. 

“Right well, if you’re taking orders I’ll take a large skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free, fat-free, with sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, and no whipped cream please,” he said, shark grin wide and vicious. Lana stared at him, her brown eyes wide and frightened. 

“Um, c-could you repeat that please?” She asked, pulling a notebook and pen out of her apron. 

“Sure,” Bruce said, then as quickly as possible he repeated his order. “One large skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free, fat-free, with sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, and no whipped cream. Please.” He grabbed Chloe’s arm, and pulled her along through the cafe. 

“We’ll be in the back, oh and if you could get it to exactly 120 degrees that’d be great.” 

“Um, I’ll just have a regular coffee,” Chloe said as Bruce dragged her away. 

“Sure thing,” Lana said despondently, lowering her notepad. Clark shot Bruce a glare as he walked off with Chloe and Pete in tow. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Chloe said as Bruce sat delicately in a chair at one of the larger tables in the back of the cafe. 

“Do what?” He asked. Chloe gave him a flat look.

“Dude, you don’t even like fancy coffee. You’ve told me on multiple occasions that the only kind of coffee worth drinking is black coffee,” Pete argued. Bruce shrugged. 

“What can I say, I’m feeling adventurous today,” he replied blithely. Chloe rolled her eyes.

“Look, I understand that you hate Lana, but making her life miserable isn’t going to win you any favors with Clark,” she said. Pete looked between them, confused. 

“Wait, what are you talking about? Why does Bruce hate Lana?” He asked. 

“Because she’s an unintelligent stereotypically vapid cheerleading peon masquerading as a sympathetic character wrapped in pretty packaging,” Bruce seethed. Chloe looked decidedly unimpressed. 

“No, it’s because you have a big gay crush on Clark, and Clark is in love with Lana,” she said flatly. Pete stared at his with wide surprised eyes. 

“You have a crush on Clark?” He asked. Bruce glared viciously at Chloe, and had she been anyone else she would have withered quickly and efficiently under the intensity of such deep blue hatred. But, since she was Chloe, she simply rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. 

“No, I don’t,” Bruce snapped, head whipping around to glare at Pete, who did immediately wither under the force of Bruce’s glare. 

“Right, no, of course not. Definitely you don’t, got it,” he said. Bruce sat back, fuming silently. Chloe rolled her eyes, and sat forward in her chair. 

“Bruce’s manfully withheld crush aside, have we entered some sort of Twilight Zone? Clark Kent is a football player, and Lana Lang is a waitress. I, for one, would like to click my heels and get back to reality.” 

“Seconded,” Bruce muttered moodily. Pete sighed. 

“I don’t know, I think it’s nice that they’re both trying something new. There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said. Bruce scoffed. 

“You _would_ think that,” he grumbled. Pete sighed, and Chloe waved him off. 

“Ignore Bruce, he’s going to be moody until we leave. Letting Clark near Lana is a recipe for clumsy buffoonery, but letting Bruce near Lana is a recipe for extensive teenage angst and premature brooding,” she said. Bruce pointedly ignored her, and instead turned to watch the football players crowd around one of the larger couches. They muttered darkly to each other, and then all stood up together to leave. 

“What’s up with your fallen brethren?” Chloe asked. Pete shrugged. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I was going to talk to you about that,” Bruce said, turning toward Chloe. “I don’t think Principle Kwan’s car accident was actually an accident. You’re right, cars don’t spontaneously combust, which means the only option is that it was done on purpose, and who has the most to lose from the Principle investigating the players for cheating and potentially kicking them off the team?” 

“They do,” Chloe said, eyes on the football players as they walked across the cafe, and out the door. 

“Them or Coach Walt, he’s the one hell bent on winning his 200th game. He can’t exactly do that with no players,” Bruce muttered. 

“He supplied the tests,” Chloe mused absently. 

“What?”

She turned to look sharply at Bruce. 

“Think about it, the players are idiots, they could never get the tests themselves, and while one or two of them might be able to find someone smart enough and desperate enough to find the test for them, it’s an entirely different story when it’s almost the entire team,” she said. Bruce’s eyes widened.

“You’re right! And Coach Walt has access to the tests, and the most to gain by giving them to his players. He has access to the players grades too, so he knows who to give them to, and who to keep his mouth shut around!” Bruce said, it all clicking quickly in his head. 

Chloe grinned at him and stood up to leave. She grabbed her coat and began pulling it on. 

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” she said. 

“Where are you going?” Bruce asked. 

“Where do you think? There’s a team meeting tonight, and one without Pete or Clark, which means the coach is going to talk to his delinquent players,” she said, a smile on her face. Bruce nodded. 

“Want me to come with?” He asked. She shook her head. 

“It’ll be less conspicuous if I’m by myself. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” She walked off, passing Clark on his way to the table. 

“Chloe?” He asked.

“Uh, relax, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she said absently, heading quickly out the door after the football players. She passed by Lana, who lost her balance and sent a full tray of drinks falling to the ground in a great splattering crash. Bruce sighed. 

“I bet that was my drink,” he said. “Oh well, I guess she’ll have to make it again.” He tried and failed to hide his vindictive smile. 

“Chloe’s right, you’re taking way too much pleasure in seeing her fail,” Pete said. 

“No one asked you, Ross,” Bruce snapped, settling back in his chair as Clark sat down in Choe’s vacated seat. Immediately he looked up at Bruce. 

“Why were you so mean to her?” He asked. Bruce sighed. 

“I wasn’t being mean to her I was simply ordering coffee,” he said. 

“Putting aside that you don’t like flavored coffee to begin with, and so the only explanation for that ridiculous order was that you were just being a dick, what about that whole ‘fall from grace middle class’ crap? What the hell was that?” He asked. Bruce sighed, agitated. He supposed that had been a tad bit harsh. 

“Ok, fine, maybe I was out of line,” he said. 

_“Maybe?”_ Clark insisted. 

“Fine, I was out of line, but look I just don’t like her, okay? I find her irritatingly beige,” he grumbled. Clark pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t even know what that means you absolute drama queen,” he sighed. Bruce sniffed indignantly. 

“It means she’s stereotypical and boring, and she annoys me,” he explained. Pete was now giving him that same unimpressed look that Chloe had been aiming at him only moments ago.

“Bruce, dude, seriously?” He asked. Bruce ignored him, and all the levels of accusation he was throwing at Bruce. 

“Whatever, look I don’t have to like everybody all right? I’ll just keep it to myself next time. My bad,” Bruce said, brushing aside their concern. Clark didn’t look pleased but he didn’t argue. 

“Fine, I guess I have to live with that,” he said. 

Moments later Lana finally arrived with their coffee. Bruce watched her with an incredibly critical eye as she handed Pete and Clark plain black coffees, set down a third plain coffee for the now absent Chloe, and then handed Bruce a tall glass full of swirling shades of brown and lightly clinking ice. 

“One large sugar-free fat-free iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, with sugar-free syrup, an extra shot of espresso, light ice, no whipped cream, and heated to exactly 120 degrees,” she said proudly. Bruce eyed it critically, and took an experimental sip. It burned his taste buds and tasted terrible, but that was to be expected as he hated flavored coffee. He wasn’t even really sure if it was right, but given the proud look on her face, he supposed it probably was. 

“Great, thanks, but I’m feeling more of a plain coffee now. I think I’ll just have Chloe’s now that she’s gone. You can take this back,” he said, handing her back the coffee. She looked completely crushed, and Clark shot Bruce another glare, and took the coffee from Lana.

“You know what? I’ll have it. I love hazelnut, and it looks way too good to go to waste,” he said, shooting her a bright white grin. Lana smiled gratefully, and Bruce frowned into Chloe’s coffee as he brought it to his lips. He placated himself with a long sip of inky black caffeine, and ignored the tender Hallmark moment. When Lana walked off Clark shot him another glare. 

“You better give her a big tip,” he said. Bruce ignored him, and simply continued to drink his coffee.

“You hate hazelnut,” he said. Clark sighed. 

“Well today I love it.” 

Pete looked back and forth between them with an amused look on his face. 

“I understand now,” he said, ignoring Bruce’s warning glare and Clark’s confused glance. 

“Well better late than never,” Bruce muttered. 

\----

The game finally arrived that Friday, and Bruce pulled up to the Kent household to pick up Clark before the pep rally. 

“I still don’t understand why _I_ have to go to this stupid thing,” Bruce muttered as Clark stepped into the car. 

“Because I needed a ride first of all, and more importantly because you owe me for the way you treated Lana at Talon,” he said. Bruce sighed. 

“It really feels like I should owe Lana for that, not you,” he replied. Clark gave him a flat look.

“There’s no way you’d do anything for Lana, so your penance will be doing things for me instead,” he said. 

“Seems a little unfair if you ask me,” Bruce grumbled.

“No, unfair is ordering the most complicated drink on the menu, and then sending it back because you changed your mind and wanted a plain coffee instead,” Clark shot back. Bruce sighed, but didn’t argue. 

“Whatever, Miss. Daisy.”

Clark smiled, pleased at Bruce’s compliance, and they drove off to the pep rally. 

\----

The pep rally was as boring and mindless as Bruce had predicted it would be, though Clark seemed to be having a good time. 

The cheerleaders cheered with their spunky pom-poms, and their pep while the football players stood around like absent minded morons watching the boobs bounce up and down with the cheerleaders jerky movements. Bruce sighed and tugged on Clark’s arm. 

“How much longer do I have to be here?” He asked. Clark looked amused. 

“As long as I say so,” he said. 

“Chloe isn’t here,” he argued. 

“Chloe didn’t order a stupid drink at Talon,” Clark argued back. “Besides, she’s probably working on tomorrow’s paper. You know how she gets.”

Bruce nodded absently, looking back at the school building. 

“You’re right. I’m going to go see if I can help her. If I’m allowed to of course,” Bruce said, a gleeful glint in his eyes. Clark rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, you’re allowed,” he said. 

“Great, see you later then,” Bruce walked off away from the bonfire and back towards the school. It was unlocked because of the pep rally, and he quickly made his way up the stairs to the Torch’s office. He walked inside to see Chloe sitting at her desk, the glow from the computer lighting her features in an otherwise poorly lit room. Bruce flicked on the lights when he walked in. Chloe jumped and turned quickly, only to relax when she saw it was him. 

“Who were you expecting?” He asked. 

“Nobody,” she shook her head, but he didn’t believe her for a second. He stepped closer and read the headline for her article. 

“Playing with fire,” Bruce read, examining the picture of Coach Walt and his players surrounded with fire on the football field. She didn’t look up at him as she edited the page layout.

“What the hell is that?” Bruce asked. 

“I think Coach Walt set Principle Kwan’s car on fire,” she said. Bruce glanced down at her. 

“Really?” 

“Yep, and I think he gave the football players those tests.” 

“Well I can’t say I disagree, but why’s the field on fire?” He asked.

“I don’t know. As far as I can tell Coach Walt is a bit of a pyromaniac, and is using fire to threaten the people around him into submission. First Principle Kwan, and now his players.”

Bruce frowned. He’d been there the night of the fire, and as much as he believed Coach Walt had set Principle Kwan’s car on fire there was the small problem of him actually having seen Kwan’s car spontaneously combust. 

“How did he know the fire wouldn’t spread? Or hurt them?” Bruce asked, examining the image critically. 

“Maybe he poured something flame retardant on the grass? I don’t know, I haven’t figured that out yet, but either way this picture is going to bring Walt down. No way he threatens his players with fire and gets away with it,” Chloe replied. Bruce frowned. 

“What if he was controlling it?” He asked. 

“What, you mean like remotely?” 

Bruce shook his head, and sat down next to her. 

“Maybe, but I was thinking more of like your meteor freaks. Some of them could do really weird stuff, right?” 

Chloe finally turned away from the computer to look at him. 

“Yeah, but nothing like this, on this scale. I mean, this isn’t just some sort of deformity, or waking up from a ten year coma with no ill effects, this is controlling fire with your mind. I don’t know if it’s possible,” she said. Bruce bit his lip. 

“I don’t know either, but I’m starting to think Coach Walt is more dangerous than we think.”

As they both sat staring at the computer it suddenly burst into flames. They both gasped and jumped back, but the fire quickly started to spread. It roared across Chloe’s desk, engulfing the entirety of her evidence against Walt, then it exploded out toward them, radiating out from the desk and licking up the walls and across the floor. 

“We have to get out of here!” Bruce shouted over the crackling of flames eating up the room. 

“The door’s on the other side of the room!” Chloe shouted back. Bruce looked up, and sure enough they were on the wrong side of the room. As they moved away from the fire his back hit the wall, and he realized it was the window he’d been walking towards, not the door. Bruce shoved the window open, and leaned out of it. 

“What are you doing?” Chloe asked. 

“Someone could hear us!” Bruce shouted back. Someone with occasional super hearing and invulnerable skin, someone like Clark. Bruce looked out and spotted the flickering flames of the pep rally bonfire. 

“Clark!” He screamed, waving his hands through the air. He saw movement as a jet black head in a red uniform turned to look at him.

“Clark!” He shouted again. Clark shoved through the throng of people and disappeared with a blur as he ran toward the building. Bruce pulled his head back through the window. 

“He’s coming,” he sighed out, eyeing the massive white hot flames as they inched closer and closer to him and Chloe.

“We have to get to the other side of the room, no way he can make it through that much fire,” Chloe shouted. Bruce shook his head. 

“No, no, don’t go through that! He can get a fire extinguisher! Trust me, he’ll make it through!” 

Chloe ignored him and pulled her jacket off her shoulders. She covered her head with it and ran towards the flames.

“Chloe!” Bruce shouted, reaching out, but just missing her. She vaulted over the desk, and through the flames, falling into a cart wheel on the other side of the desk. 

“Chloe! Are you all right?” Bruce shouted over the roar of the flames. He coughed roughly into his elbow, the flames sucking the moisture from the air, drying out his throat and burning his lungs. He heard Chloe gasp.

“Chloe!” He shouted. He began to run toward the flames, intent on running through them just as she had, when they bolstered in size and exploded out at him. Bruce turned away, arms over his face as he felt impossible heat licking at his back. _Where was Clark?_

“Oh my god!” Chloe screamed. Bruce couldn’t even see her through the flames. 

“Chloe!” He shouted, and coughed harshly. The fire was almost on top of him now. It inched closer and closer, nearly burning him with the harsh wall of heat. He was sweating profusely, his skin engulfed in a slippery sheen. The fire jumped out at him again, and he stumbled back, falling to the floor. He put his arms around his face and looked back at the window. He’d have to jump, then. 

Before he could work up the courage, the flames sucked themselves back and shrunk almost to nothing, flickering threateningly but harmlessly along the corners and edges of the furniture and walls. 

“Bruce!” Clark’s voice came from the other side of the room. Bruce looked up to see him run through the door and straight to Chloe. 

“Chloe? Where’s Bruce?” 

Chloe whipped around, and Bruce stood up. He was still on the wrong side of the room, but there was less fire between them now, Clark would be able to get him across it easily. 

“I’m here!” Bruce shouted. Clark examined the room and nodded. 

“Chloe, go get a fire extinguisher, I’ll get Bruce,” Clark said. 

“But how-”

“Just go!” 

Chloe ran out of the room, leaving Bruce and Clark alone. Chloe’s desk was still roaring with flame, and was the main problem with Bruce getting through to the other side. Clark stepped forward, fury etched into every inch of his body, and shoved the desk aside. He stepped through the flames, singing his shoes and clothes, but leaving him entirely unscathed. 

“Come on,” he said. He picked Bruce up bridal style, and using his super speed, ran them through the flames and to the door. There he set Bruce down, and together they rushed out of the door. Chloe ran up to them holding a fire extinguisher. 

“You got him?” She asked, eyes wide and face covered in ash. Clark nodded. 

“Yeah, I got him,” he said. Bruce hacked out another wracking cough, and looked up at them. 

“What the hell was that?” He exclaimed. Chloe shook her head, completely dumbfounded. Clark grabbed the fire extinguisher, and ran back in the room. 

“Guys, come here,” he called. Bruce and Chloe crept back into the room to find the fire completely put out.

“You used it that fast?” Chloe asked. Clark shook his head. 

“No, it was already out.”

Bruce and Chloe exchanged a glance. 

“I think you might be right,” she said. 

“Right about what?” Clark asked. 

“Bruce thinks Coach Walt might be one of the meteor freaks,” Chloe replied. 

“Does he now?” Clark asked, shooting Bruce a frustrated look. Bruce crossed his arms and frowned. 

“Yes I do. I think that Walt is controlling the fire with his mind, which is why things keep spontaneously combusting all over the place.” 

“Spontaneously combusting?” 

“Yes, like Kwan’s car, and here Chloe’s computer just caught fire.”

“Why would Coach Walt be targeting a computer?” 

“Because he knows I’m on to him! I had a picture Clark, a picture of Walt and the cheating players standing on the football field surrounded by fire. He supplied them with the tests, and he was trying to keep them quiet. It was going to be on the front page of tomorrow’s paper,” Chloe insisted. Clark frowned.

“Wait, now you think he’s behind the cheating scandal? Come on, Chloe,” Clark shook his head, brushing her off. Bruce stepped in front of him before he could get too far, putting his hands on Clark’s chest to stop him in his tracks. 

“We both think it Clark. It’s not just Chloe, it’s me too. The players are too stupid to get the tests themselves, and Coach Walt has access to the tests, and he knows who needs them. It makes sense, Clark. Plus, even you can admit that the guy has a rage problem. He’s obsessed with winning his 200th game, he’ll do anything to secure the win. I’m right, Clark. You know I am,” he said, quietly but forcefully. Clark pursed his lips and heaved a sigh. He turned to look at Chloe. 

“Do you have another copy of the picture?” He asked. Chloe huffed an unamused laugh, and spread her arms to indicate the burned out room.

“No, it’s kind of hard to recover the files,” she said sarcastically.

“Then you don’t have any proof,” Clark said. 

“Clark will you just listen to us! I know the scoreboard lights are blinding but Coach Walt is not a good guy. He’s hurting people, Clark,” Bruce insisted. He was frustrated that Clark wouldn’t believe him. All the trust they’d built, and still Clark had a hard time believing Bruce when it mattered. Bruce understood why, the allure of belonging and normalism was too much for Clark, but it was still frustrating. 

“Trevor Chapell,” Chloe said suddenly. Clark turned back around.

“Trevor Chapell?” Bruce remembered him from when they’d done their english project together. He was no great intellect, but he was a good guy. 

“What about him?” Clark asked. 

“I’m sure he’s the one that talked to Kwan about the cheating. He wants to talk, I know it, but he’s still too scared to talk to me. Maybe he’ll open up to you?” Chloe suggested. 

“I don’t know Chloe,” Clark said, decidedly unsure. 

“You’re his teammate Clark, and you can help him.”

“I can go with you,” Bruce said. They both turned to look at him. 

“What?” 

“I know Trevor, we did the english project together. Maybe if I ask him to, he’ll talk.” 

“Good enough for me,” Chloe said. “So, how about it, Clark? Ready to do the right thing?” 

Clark looked between them once more before sighing. 

“Fine. Come on, Bruce,” he said. He started out the door, but before Bruce followed him he stopped and looked at Chloe.

“Are you okay here?” He asked. She shrugged. 

“I guess so,” she said.

“Look, Pete’s at the pep rally, just go down and find him. Stay there in the nice wide open space with lots of witnesses, sound good?” 

Chloe cracked a smile. “Sounds good,” she said. 

\----

They didn’t manage to track Trevor down until the next morning, but when they did he confirmed for them what Bruce had already known to be true. Coach Walt abused his players, supplied them with the midterm answers, and he’d burned Trevor’s arm with his bare hands. 

“I told you so,” Bruce snapped as they got back in his car. 

“I know, Bruce,” Clark sighed. 

“I don’t understand why you don’t just listen to me.” Bruce slammed his door shut, and strapped on his seat belt with jerky, frustrated movements. 

“Bruce, calm down, I do listen to you,” Clark tried, but Bruce ignored him. 

“No you don’t, and don’t tell me to calm down. You don’t trust me Clark. This is the exact same thing your dad is doing to you. I tell you something, something I believe completely, and you don’t trust me. You don’t listen to me and you do what you want anyway. You’re full of rebellion this week Clark; it’s incredibly frustrating.”

“You can’t get mad at me because I don’t just do what you say without confirmation that you’re right,” Clark argued. Bruce stopped trying to buckle his seat belt and thrust his finger at Clark. 

“Yes, I can, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. We’re supposed to trust each other, completely, implicitly. We’re closer than brothers, Clark, and if one of us says jump the other says how high. If I mean as much to you as you say I do, then you have to prove it. Show me you trust me, show me I’m important, don’t just say it and then do what you want anyway.” 

Clark swallowed hard, thoroughly chastised. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have listened to you from the beginning. I got swept up in the football thing and I steamrolled past you, and my dad. I shouldn’t have done that, and I should’ve had more faith in you.” 

Bruce nodded, mollified. 

“If we’re going to do this, be this team, then you have to trust me. I may not be able to walk through literal fire for you, but I’ll do what I can, as long as you listen to what I say.” 

Clark nodded. 

“You’re right,” he said. 

“I usually am,” Bruce said, starting the car with a sharp twist of the key. “Now, when we get there, how are we going to handle Coach Walt?” 

Clark shook his head. “You’re going to go out and wait for me in the bleachers. I’ll take care of Coach Walt,” he said. 

“But-” 

“No, Bruce, this is something I have to do by myself. Coach Walt can set things on fire with his mind. He can’t hurt me but he sure as hell can hurt you. Don’t make me worry about you, Bruce. Just go wait in the stands for me, all right?” 

Bruce slumped in his seat, but he nodded.

“Fine, I’ll be watching though, and if he comes out before you do I’m going to go looking for you,” he said. Clark snorted. 

“All right, fine.” 

\----

When they pulled up to the school Clark got out and headed in the direction of the locker rooms, looking to head off Coach Walt. Bruce went out to the field like Clark had told him to, and found Chloe and Pete sitting in the stands. 

“Hey, there you are!” Chloe called, smiling wide at him. Bruce waved at them both before joining them. 

“Hey, sorry I’m late. I had to drive Clark,” he said. Chloe nodded and assessing look in her eyes. 

“Right, and how are you and Clark?” She asked. 

“What?” 

“You know what I mean.”

Bruce sighed. “We made up,” he said, unwilling to say more. 

“You poor unrequited soul,” she said, and Bruce shot her a withering glare. She laughed, and then cheered as the team made their way onto the field. Bruce watched as each player made his way one after the other to their bench. He grew suspicious when he didn’t see Clark’s 89 jersey among them. When Coach Walt walked out after them, Clark nowhere to be seen, Bruce’s stomach turned to lead. He stood up from his seat, and ignoring Chloe and Pete’s questions, ran out onto the field. He grabbed Coach Walt by the shoulder and turned him around. 

“What the hell? Get your hands off me kid,” Coach Walt snapped. 

“Where the hell is he?” Bruce snarled. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. 

“Clark. He’s not here, and he went to go talk to you before he came out onto the field, so where is he?” Bruce’s voice was quiet and deadly. His eyes were locked on Coach Walt’s, boring into him with an intense blue fire that gave most people chills, and not in the fun way. 

“I don’t know where the hell Kent is, but he never came to talk to me. In fact, he should be out here now. I didn’t recruit him just so he could miss games,” Coach Walt growled. Bruce’s eyes flashed, and quickly he examined Coach Walt. His thick beefy arms were covered in a fine layer of matted curly black hair. His bulging cheeks were reddened with sweat, and his hairline was slightly damp under his baseball cap. 

“You were in the sauna,” Bruce said suddenly.  
“What?” 

But Bruce was already gone, running off in the direction of the locker rooms. He didn’t know what could possibly have stopped Clark, but he wasn’t waiting around to question Coach Walt. Instead he ran back inside and navigated his way through the school and to the locker rooms. The locker room was empty, but the sauna was in the coach’s office, which was connected to the locker room by a windowed wall with a door. Bruce opened the door, but the room was also empty. 

“Clark!” He called. Clark didn’t respond, but a rock flew through the sauna window.

“Clark?” Bruce asked again. He stood up on his toes to look through the tiny window inside the sauna. There, lying on the ground groaning in pain and near unconscious, was Clark. 

“Clark!” Bruce shouted. Clark didn’t reply except for another groan. Bruce shoved at the door, but it didn’t budge. It was locked. Bruce looked around desperately for the keys, but didn’t see any. Instead he stepped back, aimed as well as he could, and slammed his foot into the door just to the left of the lock. It rocked on its hinges, and so Bruce tried again. He kicked it a second time, using all his power, and it exploded inward. Bruce noticed immediately that the sauna coals had spilled out all over the floor, and they surrounded Clark with an eerie green glow. 

“Meteor rocks,” he muttered. Just like Lana’s necklace. He dropped to Clark’s side, and tucked his arms through Clark’s, pulling him out by his armpits. Bruce dragged Clark through the sauna, groaning at the weight, until finally they were free of the little room. Bruce shut the door once again, and immediately Clark recovered. Just as Bruce let Clark go he was hit from behind with something big and heavy. It knocked him to the ground and his vision blurred. He turned to see a blurry Coach Walt standing over Clark, hitting him with a fire extinguisher, which Clark blocked with his forearms. Coach Walt went back for another swing, and Clark kicked up with his legs, sending Coach Walt flying through a window and back into the locker room. Bruce scrambled to his feet, and immediately fell back to the ground, the world spinning out from under him. 

“You need help, Coach,” he heard Clark say. 

“What I need is to win this game!”

“It’s too late for that.” 

Bruce grabbed the desk beside him and propelled himself to his feet. He looked out toward the locker room, and could see Clark’s back as he walked through the rows of lockers. Suddenly the place was engulfed in flame. 

“Clark!” Bruce called. The fire roared along the walls, big and angry, eating up everything it came across. It stopped just short of the office wall, but Bruce wasn’t confident in Coach Walt’s ability to control himself for much longer. 

Bruce was shortly proven right. There was a massive surge in the fire, it exploded though the office door and windows, and Bruce threw himself behind the desk. There was a blood curdling scream, and the fire blazed massive and intensely hot. 

“Clark!” Bruce screamed again. Seconds later Clark appeared before him, his jacket on fire, but otherwise completely unharmed. 

“Come on, we’re going through the window,” Clark said, ripping his jacket off and throwing it aside. “Stay behind me and keep your head down.” 

Bruce shuffled behind Clark, face pressed in between Clark’s shoulder blades to keep it out of the way of any flying debris. Clark picked up Coach Walt’s desk, and threw it through the window. It crashed through the window, sending glass flying, and Bruce clung harder to Clark’s back. When the desk was through the window, Clark turned around, picked Bruce up, and ran through the window. The locker rooms were on the first floor, so one short jump and they were back on the ground. Clark stopped them several feet away from the window, the fire surging through the broken glass, reaching angrily for them. Clark set Bruce down, and Bruce sagged against him. Clark quickly caught him and propped him up.

“What is it?” He asked. Bruce shook his head, and immediately groaned. 

“Ugh, nothing, just possibly a mild concussion,” he sighed. Clark hugged him close and Bruce allowed himself to relax into Clark’s chest. 

“Dammit, Bruce, I told you to leave this to me! This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen!” 

Bruce shrugged as much as he could in Clark’s iron grip. 

“I knew something was wrong when he came out onto the field and you didn’t. I couldn’t just let it go,” he said. 

“You could have told somebody else!” 

“Like who?”

“I don’t know! My dad maybe?” 

Bruce sighed, and looked up at Clark. 

“Clark, you were missing and it was his fault and I didn’t know what happened. I wasn’t going to leave you alone, and I wasn’t going to delegate my responsibility to someone else and put them at risk. You’re my best friend Clark, and I’m never leaving you alone.” Bruce’s tone was intense, full of righteous conviction. Clark would never win the argument, not this one. Clark just shook his head, and pulled Bruce back into his bone-crushing hug. 

“God, Bruce, I don’t know what the hell I would do without you,” he said. Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark’s waist, and held on tight. 

“Right back at you,” he said. 

The fire truck and the ambulance arrived shortly after, and along with it came a wave of students and parents, all rushing over from the football game to see what had happened. 

“Clark! Bruce!” Jonathan was running at them, followed closely by Martha, Alfred, Chloe, and Pete. 

“Fuck that’s so many people,” Bruce groaned, rubbing his forehead where it pounded angrily under his skin. Clark snorted. 

“Hey, guys,” Clark sighed. “Be careful with Bruce, I think he might have a concussion.” 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said tersely. There was a worried crease in his brow and his eyes were wild with fear. He held Bruce’s face in his hands, and examined him.

“You’re to come with me to see the paramedics, sir, _now,_ ” Alfred said, his tone brokering no disagreement. 

“Okay,” Bruce mumbled, tired and quiet. Alfred took Bruce’s hand and pulled him gently along to where the ambulance had parked. He asked the paramedic to examine Bruce, and stood dutifully by his side while the man examined Bruce for a concussion and smoke inhalation. He diagnosed Bruce with a very mild concussion, and gave him some water. 

“What happened here, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, his posh english accent cutting through the fog in Bruce’s head. 

“The coach was evil, he could control fire with his mind. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” he said. Alfred sighed. 

“If the coach could control fire with his mind then why exactly were you in his _office_?”

“Clark,” Bruce said, as if that explained everything, and really, it did. 

\----

That night Clark came to see Bruce at his fairly large pseudo-mansion, as Bruce liked to call it. It was a massive farmhouse sitting neatly atop acres of lushly gardened land. It backed up to the Smallville lake, where Bruce and Clark had spent many a summer’s day. The house itself was simple enough, similar to the Kent’s house, only twice the size if not bigger. Bruce and Alfred stuck mostly to the first two floors, but there was a third floor filled almost entirely with guest rooms that were never used. Bruce’s father had purchased the house as an intended vacation home for the family, but he’d never gotten around to using it. After his and Martha Wayne’s murder it had been the most logical place to move to in order to leave Gotham behind. It was unknown to the public, new, and completely remote. It was perfect.

Clark used his super speed to run to the house, and knocked politely on the door. Alfred answered, dressed, as always, in his butler’s suit. 

“Hi Alfred. I’m here to see Bruce?” 

Alfred nodded, “Right this way, Master Clark.” He swept his arm out, helping Clark inside. He took Clark’s coat at the door, and pointed Clark in the direction of Bruce’s bedroom. Clark made his way through the halls until finally he reached Bruce’s closed door. He knocked lightly, and was told to come in. 

“Hey, you okay?” Clark asked as he shuffled inside. Bruce looked up and smiled at Clark from his position on the bed. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little banged up. How are you?”

“Fine,” Clark said, a ghost of a smile on his face. Bruce huffed a laugh.

“Right, the martian doesn’t get hurt by something so trivial as fire, I forgot,” he said. Clark rolled his eyes, but made his way over to the bed, and sat on the edge of it. 

“I’m not a martian.” 

“No, of course not, just a regular old alien.” Bruce’s smile was soft, and Clark couldn’t help but return it. 

“That’s me,” he said. 

“You know, I’ve been working on deciphering the language from your ship. I’m getting close, too,” Bruce said. Clark quirked a brow at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know when something develops.” 

“Thanks.” Clark looked away and studied his shoes. 

“I wanted to thank you, you know, for saving me from the meteor rocks. I certainly didn’t see that coming,” he said. Bruce nodded, and leaned back against the headboard. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either. But I was thinking about it, and I thought maybe that’s why Coach Walt was the way he was. He didn’t always have these powers, that’s for certain, and he probably didn’t get them when the meteor shower happened initially, otherwise we would’ve heard about a lot more crazy fires in his vicinity over the years. I figure that since the fire just started this past week, it must have been the meteor rocks that triggered it.” 

“How do you figure?” Clark asked. 

“Well, we know they come from the same place you do, and you have superpowers. Plus, they affect you, weaken you, and you come from the same planet. So, maybe, if they have a negative affect on you, they have a negative effect on everybody else, too. Except, since humans don’t have the same biological makeup as you do, they affect us differently. Instead of taking power away from us, they give us power. That’s why Coach Walt only had his abilities recently, some meteor rocks probably got mixed in with his sauna coals by accident, and when he used them they affected him, made him as fiery as his temper.” 

Bruce didn’t know a lot about the meteor rocks, neither did Clark for that matter, but it seemed logical enough to him. He knew for certain that they affected Clark, so it was likely they affected human beings too, given how similar Clark’s species and humans appeared to be.

“That makes sense, I guess. I mean, it makes more sense than anything else does,” Clark said. Bruce shrugged.

“It’s a theory,” he said. 

“It’s smart, just like you are,” Clark said, smiling again. Bruce blushed and looked away. 

“There’s no need to flatter me Clark, my ego is large enough already.” 

Clark laughed. 

“So how are things with you and your dad?” Bruce asked. 

“Good, actually. We talked after the fire. He came to the game to support me, or, so he said anyway, but I believe him. He was really trying, and I appreciate that.” 

Bruce put a hand over Clarks, and Clark looked up at him. 

“He loves you Clark, never doubt that.” 

Clark looked at Bruce, and it was like something clicked in his mind. His expression changed, softened, the emotion in his eyes deepened. 

“A lot of people love me,” he said. “Or so I’m coming to realize.”

Bruce’s eyebrows twitched together in confusion. 

“Of course they do, dumby,” he said. 

“Right, of course. Come on, let’s go bother Alfred until he feeds us,” Clark said, nudging Bruce out of bed. Bruce sighed an over dramatically put upon sigh, and stood. 

“Fine, if I must,” he said, amusement in his voice. Clark rolled his eyes, and led Bruce out of his room and down toward the kitchen. 

\----

Weeks later Bruce finally managed to get ahold of the alien language Clark had given him months earlier. With this breakthrough success he rushed over to the Kent’s to show them what he’d found.

They were sitting in the kitchen, Martha’s fudgy brownies sitting in a glass container to their right, picked at by forks and never cut into squares. Bruce laid out his notebooks full of notes on the language and began explaining it to Clark. 

“So, I’ve mostly been using the Cree language to figure out the symbols. The hieroglyphics were helpful in deciphering the language structure, but I’m more interested in the direct translation than the meaning at the moment. I’ve managed to decipher it roughly into english. It’s a literal translation, letter for letter since it’s very difficult to tell where the separation of words lies. From what I can tell it seems to say Jorel on the left, and Kalel on the right. I don’t know what any of that means, I couldn’t tell you the significance other than a faraway guess, but as far as translation goes, that should be literally what it says in phonetic English.” Bruce brushed his fingers over the lines of script as he spoke, demonstrating them for Clark. Clark’s eyes were glued to the page, he was enthralled with this new knowledge. Bruce didn’t blame him. This was his language, the language of his people, and now he had words, words in english that he could say that meant something important. 

“Jorel and Kalel,” Clark mused aloud. “I wonder what that means.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know what this thing is, or what purpose it serves. For all we know these could be instructions, or some kind of passcode,” Bruce said. 

“It almost sounds familiar. Sort of like deja vu; when you know it’s brand new but you can’t help but think you’ve seen it before, only with sound.” 

“Déjà entendu,” Bruce said. 

“What?”

“What you’re describing. Déjà vu, but with sound, it’s Déjà entendu.”

Clark shot him an exasperated glance, but Bruce simply shrugged, unconcerned. After a moment of careful examination of the letters Clark grew more serious. 

“Look, Bruce, I can’t thank you enough for this,” he said. Bruce waved him off. 

“It’s not a big deal, I’m enjoying myself.” 

Clark smiled. “I’m glad you are, but it is a big deal, to me anyway. You’re giving me my history, my language. A language I didn’t even know was mine months ago. I have an entire culture, an entire history that I know nothing about, and now you’ve given me part of it. You’ve given me something to say, even if I don’t know what it means. I can pronounce the words, feel them in my mouth, and know that they mean something.” 

Bruce couldn’t help but smile at the sweetness of it all. Clark was right, Bruce was giving him part of his history back. Bruce didn’t feel the monumental nature of it all until it was sitting in front of him, coming out of Clark Kent’s mouth. 

“Jorel Kalel,” Clark said. “I don’t know what it means, but I can say it.” And that, it appeared, was all that really mattered. 

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“You’re welcome, Clark.” 

\----

Now that their only piece of Clark’s alien language had been deciphered Bruce buckled down on helping Clark work on his powers. The winter months had fully settled in, and the temperatures were dropping at alarming rates. Snow threatened to fall daily, but never quite managed to burst from the clouds and settle over the town. 

It was during these colder months that Clark discovered his heat vision. 

Bruce had decided to stay the night at the Kent’s and had been changing from his clothes into his pajamas, when suddenly a beam of red light flew past his head and burned holes into the wall before turning sharply down and burning through his air mattress. Bruce stared at the air mattress for several long seconds, jaw practically on the floor, before turning back to Clark, who had his hands clamped over his eyes. 

“Can you go get my dad?” He asked. Bruce nodded, and then, realizing that Clark couldn’t seen him, croaked, “Sure.” 

He hurried down the stairs to get Jonathan from where he was sitting on the couch watching TV. It was only when Jonathan looked at him strangely that Bruce realized he was still only in his boxers. 

“Clark sort of burned holes in the wall?” Bruce said, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Jonathan’s eyebrows shot to his forehead, and he rushed up the stairs, Bruce following quickly after him. 

“Clark, son, are you all right?” He asked. Clark was still sitting on his bed, facing the same wall, with his hands still over his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Is Bruce okay?” 

“Yeah, Clark, I’m fine.”

“Oh, good, okay.” 

“Clark, what happened?” Jonathan asked. 

“I don’t know, I got kind of hot and my eyes started to burn, and then all of a sudden everything was red and I could see the wall burning where I was looking at it.” 

“And you have no idea what caused this?” 

Clark shook his head, “Not really, no.” 

“This has never happened before?” Bruce asked. Jonathan shook his head. 

“Never.” 

“Well, what were you looking at when your eyes started to get hot?” Bruce asked. Clark was silent for a long moment. 

“The wall,” he said quickly, suspiciously quickly. 

“Really, Clark?” Bruce asked. Clark nodded minutely. 

“Yeah, definitely the wall. You know what, I’m going to go outside and cool off, and see if maybe that helps?” 

He shot up off the bed and rushed for the door, running straight past Bruce and his dad and turning left, his arm outstretched reaching around for the stair railing. 

“Clark, why don’t you let me come with you. We can talk about this wall you were looking at,” Jonathan said wryly. He grabbed Clark by the shoulders and helped lead him down the stairs. Bruce was unsure if he should follow, but having been very clearly not invited, he decided to stay in Clark’s room. He finished changing into his pajamas, and sat on Clark’s bed to wait for them. He didn’t hear any more burning or any shouting, so he figured Clark had probably gotten a handle on it. He examined his air mattress from his position on the bed, and decided that it was definitely beyond repair. The plastic had melted right through the middle of it, and all the air had escaped, flattening it completely. 

Clark returned a few minutes later, Jonathan in tow. 

“We think we got it under control,” Jonathan said, an encouraging smile on his face. Bruce raised a very pointed eyebrow.

“Okay,” he said, clearly not believing them. 

“Anyway it shouldn’t happen again. It was probably just a fluke, anyway. Oh, damn, the air mattress is broken,” Jonathan said, having only just realized Clark had burned through it as well as the wall. He exchanged a glance with Clark, who looked a little queasy. 

“Well, son, do I need to go buy another air mattress?” He asked Clark. Bruce thought that was an odd thing to ask, especially since he wasn’t actually asking Bruce, the person who needed the air mattress in the first place.

“No, it’s fine. Bruce and I can just share my bed,” Clark said, sounding for all the world like he’d just been given a death sentence. Jonathan looked like he didn’t quite believe that it really was fine, but he didn’t argue. 

“All right, then. Goodnight boys,” he said, leaving the room with one last backwards glance at Clark. 

“Night, Dad.”

“Night, Mr. Kent.” 

Bruce watched from where he sat as Clark slowly approached the bed. Didn’t he just look like a man headed to the gallows. 

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked. Clark shook his head.

“It’s nothing. I’m just worried I’ll lose control. I don’t think I will, but I hate to risk it,” he said. 

“What caused the laser eyes in the first place?” Bruce asked. Clark looked sick. 

“Well, Pa thinks that it’s- well, I mean. He just thought I needed to cool down is all. It’s nothing,” he said. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Clark didn’t want to tell him, which meant he was embarrassed. There were very few things that embarrassed Clark enough that he wouldn’t want to tell Bruce. The top one probably being sex, and if he needed to cool off…

“Oh man, you shoot lasers out of your eyes when you’re horny?” Bruce asked bluntly. Clark cringed as a red stain made its way up his neck and flared in his cheeks. 

“Sort of?” He sounded like he really didn’t want that to be true, but it definitely was. 

“What were you thinking of that got you all hot and bothered, then?” Bruce asked. Clark grew shifty, and he refused to meet Bruce’s eyes. 

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you have dirty magazines in here somewhere. Or, eww, were you thinking of Lana?” Bruce asked. Clark looked up at him, wide-eyed. 

“Yes,” he said immediately. “I was definitely thinking of Lana.” 

“Ugh,” Bruce exclaimed, his belly twisting in jealousy against his will. “Fine, just keep it in your freaking pants for tonight, all right Casanova?” 

Clark nodded. “No problem,” he muttered.

——

Bruce woke up first the next morning. His back was to Clark; Clark had shifted in the night, and was now spooning him. Bruce rolled his eyes, but froze when he realized that the hard thing poking him in the back wasn’t Clark’s knee. Bruce sighed, and shoved back against Clark, hoping to wake him up so he could tease him mercilessly. If he was going to tease Bruce, then Bruce was going to tease him right back. Out of the corner of his eye Bruce noticed the holes in the wall. 

He remembered just in time to throw himself off the bed before Clark opened his eyes, and bright red lasers burned straight through the wall. Clark slapped his hands over his eyes, and sat up. Bruce stood up from the floor and dusted himself off. 

“Well considering the fact that you’re seventeen, I think this one is going to be a bit of a problem,” Bruce sighed. Clark groaned. 

“You have no idea,” he muttered.

“Also if I die because you had one too many Lana themed sex dreams I’m going to be so pissed. As if I needed another reason to dislike her,” Bruce snapped. Clark threw his head back against the pillow with a truly world weary sigh.

“I can’t open my eyes until this goes away,” he said, embarrassment written in every line of his body. Even Bruce blushed, the second-hand embarrassment too much for him. 

“Right, well then, I guess I’ll go see if your mom’s made breakfast yet,” he said.

“Good idea,” Clark mumbled. Bruce quickly made his way out of Clark’s room and down the stairs to the kitchen where Martha was cooking eggs and bacon on the stove. 

“I guess he’s going to have to work on that one, huh?” She asked, eyeing Bruce’s bright red cheeks.

“He’s probably going to destroy his room if he doesn’t,” Bruce agreed. 

\----

Clark spent several days trying to figure out how to get his heat vision, as Bruce called it, under control. He refused to tell Bruce anything about how he was managing it, and Bruce didn’t ask, but Bruce had stopped sleeping over for the time being. 

It all came to a head one afternoon while Bruce and Clark were sat together at Talon, drinking coffee and scribbling their way through their history homework. They were spread out on one of the smaller tables, each sat in his own plush mismatched chair. Bruce was on his second cup of coffee, which leaked steam from a red porcelain mug. He was leaning over what looked like edits for an essay, and Clark watched him over the small bouquet of yellow flowers that decorated each table. It wasn’t until Bruce was on his third cup that Clark finally gathered the confidence to awkwardly tell Bruce, “I figured it out, the, uh, the heat vision thing, I mean.”

Bruce groaned in relief. 

“Thank _god_. I was really starting to worry that I would have to get involved, and I don’t need to know anything about your Lana Lang sex dreams,” he muttered. He really didn’t. Just the idea that Lana got Clark so hot and bothered that lasers shot from his eyes made all those stamped down feelings of jealousy come shooting back up to the forefront of Bruce’s mind. He hated the idea that Clark loved Lana that much, and he’d been doing so well too. He’d been ignoring his feelings, waiting for them to go away, leave him and Clark’s friendship be. It hadn’t happened, but he’d been fairly successful in ignoring them, and that was close enough for him. 

“Shh!” Clark hissed, looking around. “Don’t say that so loud. Besides, it wasn’t Lana anyway.” 

Bruce felt the seeds of relief, if not quite hope, grow in his stomach. He didn’t want to give himself false hope, but he allowed himself the relief that came along with Clark moving on from Lana.

“Oh no? Who was it then?” Bruce asked, easy as you please. 

“It was, uh, a guy,” Clark said, clearing his throat as he did. Against his consent a bright flurry of hope sprung up in Bruce. A guy. It was a guy. 

“A guy? Who?” 

“Just some guy from TV. Don’t even remember his name,” Clark replied. Bruce didn’t believe him for a second, but if Clark didn’t want to tell him then he wouldn’t push. 

“Really? Well, if you need any pointers, that happens to be one of my areas of expertise,” he leered, only mostly joking. Clark laughed a little awkwardly, but mostly the awkwardness dissipated with Bruce’s attempt at humor. 

Unfortunately that was when Lex walked in. 

He noticed them immediately, and waved before walking over. 

“Bruce! How are you, it feels like it’s been ages. Clark, good to see you too,” he greeted them both. 

“Lex,” Clark grumbled. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Bruce said, a small mildly flirtatious smile on his face. He was done with Lex, but the flirting was harmless, and besides, having someone as potentially powerful as Lex Luthor on his side wasn’t a bad thing. 

“It’s definitely been too long. You look great though. What’s your secret, pilates?” He asked, smirking as his eyes roved over Bruce’s body. Clark glared at him, not that Lex was looking at him to see.

“He does mixed martial arts,” Clark snapped, he sounded offended on Bruce’s behalf. Lex and Bruce both glanced at him, surprised and a little confused. 

“Right, well, whatever it is, it’s working,” Lex said, not so smoothly sliding back into flirtation. Bruce smiled politely at him. 

“Thanks, Lex. I’m sure you’d look just as good if you knew how,” he said, taking a delicate sip of his coffee. Lex’s smile turned predatory. He always was turned on by their repartee. 

“I’m sure I would. So, Bruce, we’ve finally finished revamping the plant, and we’re planning on having a grand re-opening in two weeks. How would you feel about being my date?” He asked, much to both Bruce and Clark’s surprise. He’d thought this part of their relationship had long been over. Besides, their only real “date” had been a complete disaster. They’d mostly just been having sex. 

“Your date?” Bruce asked. Lex nodded.

“No one else I’d rather go with.”

“Oh, Lex. Haven’t we established that dating isn’t really the right choice for us? Clearly we work better on a more… physical level,” Bruce replied, smile sharp. Clark looked angry, his face was turning the same shade of red as his heat vision. 

“Yes, well, isn’t that usually what happens at the end of a date?” Lex asked, not bothering to disguise the lust in his eyes. Clark stood suddenly from his chair and turned to Lex with, thankfully figurative, fire in his eyes. 

“Shut the hell up, Lex. He’s not a piece of meat. Either treat him right, or leave him the hell alone,” Clark snapped. Several heads turned in their direction, but Bruce was unconcerned with them. He was more interested in the two heads standing in front of him facing each other. He wasn’t sure quite what was happening. He knew Clark didn’t approve of his relationship with Lex, but he hadn’t figured Clark would go so far as to berate Lex in public. 

“I’m sorry, Kent, but I don’t see how this is any of your business,” Lex said, voice dangerous. 

“If you’re objectifying my best friend right in front of me it is my business, now get the hell out of here before I make you leave,” Clark growled. Lex turned to face Clark more fully, and Bruce could see the beginnings of a fight, a fight Clark would most certainly win in the most disastrous way possible. So he stood up and shoved his way between them.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Bruce said in his most calming but forceful tone. “Everybody just relax. Lex, we can talk about this later, _privately_. Clark, just calm down all right, nobody’s making anybody do anything.” 

Clark glanced at him, and Bruce could see that there was true fury in his eyes, which was so unbelievably rare for Clark that it took Bruce completely by surprise. He was so shocked that he couldn’t stop Clark from shoving out of his grasp and walking off toward the front door, as if making to leave. Bruce watched Clark go before turning back to Lex. 

“What crawled up his ass?” Lex asked, sneering in Clark’s direction. So much for that all important friendship Lex had talked so oddly about months ago. It occurred to Bruce, not for the first time, that Lex probably had his own suspicions about Clark, and that any continued relationship Bruce had with Lex would be a danger to Clark’s secret. Maybe it was time to let this thing with Lex go. It wasn’t like Bruce was fully invested in it anymore anyway. 

“Look, we’ll talk about this later, okay?” He asked, fully intending to break his off this relationship for good. Lex shrugged.

“Fine. You can come by on Thursday.” It wasn’t a question. It never was with Lex. Bruce nodded anyway. 

“Sure,” he said. It would be the last time, anyway.

Bruce didn’t wait another second before rushing out the door after Clark, who was walking swiftly away from Talon. Bruce was just glad he hadn’t run off with his super speed, or Bruce would never have caught up to him. 

“Clark!” He called. “Clark, hold on!” 

Clark stopped long enough to give Bruce time to catch up to him. 

“Look, I’m sorry about Lex, he’s a complete asshole,” Bruce apologized. Clark nodded; he still looked furious. 

“I know, which is why I don’t understand why you stay with him. He’s a jerk, Bruce. He treats you like your just a prize to be won. He has no interest in you personally, he just likes fucking you.” Bruce flinched at the words. It was unlike Clark to be so crass; Bruce didn’t like it. 

“I know you don’t get it, but it’s just a fling all right? It’s just a stupid fling, and I’m probably ending it anyway, so don’t worry about it.” 

“Don’t worry about it? It’s the probably that I’m worried about here, Bruce! You deserve so much better than Lex Luthor, and you know it! You know he’s bad to you, but you go back to him time and time again. You don’t even like him! What could possibly make you do something so stupid?” Clark snapped. He really had gotten to the heart of the matter there. He was absolutely right. Bruce stayed with Lex because his options were slim, his heart was broken, and he liked the consolation that came with physical intimacy. He didn’t tell people things like that, though. It was too personal, too private, and the only person he ever told those personal private details to was the man he was in love with, the man who was standing right in front of him, who he’d sworn not to tell for the sake of their friendship. 

Bruce had hidden this for so long, spent so many nights heartsick and sad. He was tired of it, beyond tired of it. Bruce didn’t like lying to Clark, and so, generally, he didn’t, but this had been weighing on his heart for so long that he was just done with it. Done with keeping it locked up, with not telling anyone, not even his best friend, with dealing with it on his own. 

“Fine, Clark. You want to know why I’ve been sleeping with Lex?” He asked, the enormity of what he was about to do turning his extremities numb, causing his heart to beat a rapid staccato in his chest. 

“Yes, I do,” Clark said, his eyes shrouded in darkness thanks to the low light of the street lamps and Talon’s neon sign. 

“Fine. I slept with Lex because when I asked you if you wanted to go to the homecoming dance with me you laughed in my face,” Bruce said, all at once and with a barely perceptible tremble in his voice. Clark jerked back, surprised. 

“What?” He asked, breathy and sharp. 

“I’ve had a crush on you since I was eight years old, you moron, and when you said no I was so heartbroken that I went straight to Lex’s house, because it was clear that whatever I felt for you, you sure as hell didn’t feel the same way. I kept sleeping with him because I don’t like to be alone, and being rejected by my best friend made me feel more alone than I ever have. Lex may be an ass, but he sure as hell likes me, and he’s never let me forget it.” 

Silence settled around them, heavy like a woolen blanket. They both stood, equally shocked at what Bruce had just confessed. 

“I’m in love with you, Clark,” Bruce breathed out the words, letting go of the last vestiges of his secret. Any veiled words, any innuendo or euphemism keeping the true meaning from being abundantly clear were gone. This was the truth, plain and simple, blunt in just the way Bruce Wayne liked.

Only now that the words were out there, Bruce didn’t know what to do with them. They were no longer his to control. Clark knew them now, he had power over them, he could sway them, manipulate them any way he liked. Clark was in control now, and Bruce didn’t like that thought at all. 

So he ran. He turned and ran back down the street to where his car was parked, and drove home. 

\----

He didn’t go to school the next day, too terrified of seeing Clark before they were both ready. Alfred made him chicken noodle soup from scratch, and then a dozen chocolate chip cookies, fresh and gooey just the way Bruce liked them. 

Clark showed up after school. Bruce could hear Alfred greeting Clark from where he sat in the kitchen, freshly showered (having only left his bed at one in the afternoon), and dressed in his bathrobe. 

“Master Bruce is in the kitchen, Master Clark. There’s also cookies if you want one.” 

Alfred was a traitor. Bruce debated stealing the cookies and running off for a second too long, because suddenly Clark was there, having used his super speed to run into the kitchen and trap Bruce inside. 

“Alfred definitely knows your secret now,” Bruce said superiorly. Clark shrugged. 

“I trust him,” he said. Bruce swallowed hard, and nodded.  
“Great, well, now that we have that sorted out, I think I’m going to go back to hibernating out of mortification, and you can go back to the farm,” he muttered, already walking off in the direction of his room, the cookies left forgotten. Unfortunately Clark followed him. 

“Look, Bruce, I don’t want you to be embarrassed about last night,” he began. It was a terrible way to begin. All it did was cause the already embarrassed flush on the back of Bruce’s neck to spread to his cheeks. 

“Great, I’ll work on that,” Bruce said sarcastically. Clark sighed. 

“I’m saying this wrong,” he muttered. 

“Glad you figured that out. I was beginning to worry that I was going to have to tell you myself.” 

“Bruce, will you just stop and listen to me!” 

They were in the hallway now, mere steps from Bruce’s room, his haven where he could shut the door in Clark’s face, lock it, and hope that Clark respected his privacy. 

“What? What do you want to say so badly, Clark? Just say it! Then I can go back to my room, and finish an entire plate of cookies by myself.” 

Clark looked beyond frustrated. He opened his mouth several times, the words never quite making their way out, before finally he made a frustrated noise, grabbed Bruce’s face, and planted an incredibly thorough kiss on his lips. 

Clark pulled away, still frustrated, but with a hopeful look on his face. 

“What the fuck?” Bruce asked, for the first time in his life, thoroughly dumbfounded. Clark sighed.

“Ok, here it is. I got my heat vision because you were stripping in my room and I was staring at your ass,” Clark said, trying a Bruce Wayne flavor of bluntness on for size. 

Bruce could only stare at him, it was a little disconcerting to be on this end of it. 

“What?” 

“Bruce, I’m in love with you too, you idiot. I got mad about Lex because he doesn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve to treat you so flippantly when I wanted you more than I could say.” 

Bruce stared at him. 

“Well, hasn’t this been quite the week for life changing revelations,” he mumbled. Clark rolled his eyes. 

“Do you have anything to say that isn’t sarcastic?” 

Bruce nodded decisively. “Yes. What the hell took you so long? I’m a much better choice than Lana Lang.” 

“I see you’re far from suffering a crisis of confidence then,” Clark snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“What the hell do I have to be insecure about? You’re the one vying for my attention with a billionaire genius with an array of sports cars and a private jet,” Bruce said matter of factly. Clark sighed, a smile creeping its way onto his face. 

“I guess I’m banking on my looks then?” 

Bruce considered this. “I guess so. I don’t really go for bald.” He bit his lip. “Though, since we’re being all serious here, I love you because you’re nice, and I’ve never met anyone as truly good as you are. You were nice to me before anyone else here was. You’ve always been nice to me.” 

Clark smiled, and pulled Bruce into a hug. 

“You’re the smartest person I know, and you helped me with the alien stuff when no one else could. I owe you more than I can say Bruce, and I love you for it.” 

Bruce smiled into Clark’s chest. He pulled out of the hug, and took Clark’s hand. With a mischievous smile he tugged Clark down the hall, and into his room. He shut the door soundly behind them. 

“So am I to assume your heat vision inducing sex dreams were also about me?” Bruce asked. Clark blushed fantastically. 

“Yes. What was I supposed to do? It’s a small bed,” he muttered, indignant. Bruce grinned, hands already reaching for the tie on his robe. 

“You know what’s better than a sex dream?” He asked. Clark’s eyes were glued to Bruce’s hands as they undid the knot at his waist. 

“What?” Clark asked.

Bruce pulled apart the tie, and let his robe drop.

“The real thing,” he said. Clark didn’t even wait a second before he pounced. He pulled Bruce to him hard, one hand at the small of his back, one hand in his hair. He kissed Bruce, tongue delving into his mouth. Bruce moaned as Clark started kissing down his neck, sucking and biting on the spots that got the deepest moans out of him. Bruce, not one to be at a disadvantage, pulled at Clark’s shirt until he stepped back and pulled it over his own head. Bruce spread his hands across Clark’s solidly sculpted chest. 

“I’ve never been so grateful for super strength in my life,” Bruce muttered, kissing Clark’s pecs. Clark laughed, but choked on it when Bruce bit at his nipple. 

Bruce dropped his hands to Clark’s belt, quickly pulling at it until it came away. Clark pushed down his pants and his underwear in one go, but stumbled when they caught on his shoes. Bruce laughed at him as he fumbled to remove his sneakers, overeager and inexperienced, not that Bruce minded one bit. 

Bruce laid back on his bed, smirking at Clark as he waited for him to get naked. Once Clark had removed the last of his clothes he stood proudly in front of Bruce, and Bruce barked out another laugh. Clark tackled him retribution, and pinned him to the mattress with hands wrapped around Bruce’s wrists. They kissed languidly for some time, grinding against each other, moaning at the feeling of skin on skin. They were largely unconcerned with the mess they were beginning to make, more interested in chasing each other’s tongues. 

Finally Bruce broke away, reaching into his nightstand to pull out a bottle of lube and a condom. 

“You just have those?” Clark asked, surprised. Bruce rolled his eyes. 

“It’s called being responsible.” 

“Boy Scout,” Clark chastised. Bruce scoffed. 

“I’m assuming you know what to do with at least _one_ of these things?” He asked. Clark smiled goofily and plucked the condom from Bruce’s hand. He ripped open the package, and was quick about rolling it onto his cock.

“That was truly beautiful, now this,” Bruce said, slapping the bottle of lube to Clark’s chest. Clark looked up at him, uncertain. Bruce rubbed a hand across Clark’s cheek. 

“I trust you Clark,” he said. Clark kissed him softly, then sat back to open the lube. He opened the cap upside down, and spilled a little on the bed sheets before he got the hang of it.

“Careful down there,” Bruce giggled. Clark shot him an exasperated look, before coating his fingers in lube. He squeezed Bruce’s ass, spreading it carefully before he pushed inside. 

Bruce moaned at the intrusion. He gasped as Clark crooked his fingers, scraping along Bruce’s inner walls. 

“Good?” Clark asked, thrusting lightly. Bruce just moaned in reply. 

Clark screwed him well with just his fingers, Bruce’s toes curled into the soft silk of his sheets. Bruce grabbed at Clark’s shoulders, but Clark used his other hand to pin Bruce’s wrists to the bed. 

“Stay,” he said, a fire in his eyes that had Bruce biting his plush lower lip. Finally Clark pulled his fingers out, and Bruce groaned at the loss. Clark slicked up his cock, and positioned it at Bruce’s entrance. He teased at the entrance, pressing in lightly before pulling away until Bruce was glaring at him from behind sweaty bangs. Clark swallowed a smile, and finally, _finally_ , pushed inside. He moved slowly, allowing Bruce time to adjust, and stopped once he was fully sheathed. Bruce threw his head back, his breathing becoming ragged. 

“Go on,” he groaned, desperate. Clark didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled out and slammed back in, thrusting hard and fast. Bruce gasped loudly, made little punched out noises every time Clark pushed in. He shifted the angle, hitting Bruce’s prostate dead on, and Bruce cried out in satisfaction. Clark, encouraged, continued on at the same angle, using the hand not holding himself up to stroke at Bruce’s hard leaking cock. Bruce’s breath caught in his throat and he gasped, trying desparately to get air in his lungs. Finally Clark gave one particularly hard thrust, and Bruce’s back shot off the bed in a graceful arch as he came. Clark lasted just a handful of more thrusts before he spilled into the condom. 

They lay there for a long moment, breathing hard and coming back down to earth. Clark held on to the condom as he pulled out of Bruce, which caused Bruce to whimper. Clark rolled over onto his back, and lay there next to Bruce. 

“So, how was that?” Clark asked. Bruce took a moment to catch his breath before replying. 

“That was perfect,” he said, his brain unwilling to work hard enough to come up with better descriptors. 

“Same here,” Clark replied, smiling big and wide. Bruce snorted. Then he froze. 

“Oh, crap, I forgot the cookies,” he said. Clark just laughed. 

\----

Bruce broke things off with Lex the day after that, but that didn’t mean he was done with the Luthor’s. He still had Clark’s secret to keep after all, plus he was still suspicious of Lionel, and he was never wrong about his suspicions. 

Clark never mentioned Lana again, except to say hello to her in class. He had something far better now, and he didn’t plan on ever letting Bruce go. 

Their relationship didn’t get the chance to stay a secret because Alfred was a dirty gossip, and Martha Kent was persistent. Bruce told Chloe and Pete too, Chloe had almost looked a little disappointed, but she’d congratulated them all the same. 

And so began their new normal. Most afternoons were now spent making out in the barn, occasionally doing homework, and sometimes working on cases from Chloe’s wall of weird. Their senior year progressed languidly, much to their delight, until finally the day came for them to graduate. A day Bruce had been dreading for some time, because somewhere along the way a secret had grown inside him, a secret he hadn’t meant to keep, more like he had just accidentally stumbled upon it one morning in the shower.

He was leaving. 

He wasn’t going to college, he hadn’t even applied if he was being honest. He’d set a mission for himself ten years ago in a dirty Gotham back alley, and now was the time to start it. If not now then it would be never. 

So after they walked across a stage to collect their diplomas, after the festivities had lulled down to a dull roar peaked by the occasional firework show from someone else’s graduation party on the horizon, Bruce took Clark aside to the barn where the telescope now pointed firmly toward the stars, and told him. 

“I’m leaving,” he said. Clark looked at him, a world of confusion and hurt swirling in his eyes. 

“I’m coming back, but I need to work on something first. You’re incredible, Clark. You’re strong and fast and invulnerable. You’re going to become the hero I know you already are. You’re going to be world famous for saving kittens from trees, and helping little old ladies cross the street, and maybe saving the world in your off days, and I’m so _so_ glad that you are. Only I can’t be that, not yet, but I want to. I want to be able to stand next to you one day, on equal ground. But I’m only human, which means I need to learn how before I can join you up there,” Bruce said. 

“We can work together. You’re brilliant Bruce, you don’t need to fight like I do in order to be a hero,” Clark protested. 

“But I do, Clark. My parents were murdered right in front of me. I couldn’t fight off their killer, and there was no one there to save me. Gotham is sick, Clark. It has been for years. It’s my job to protect it, to save it.”

Clark looked devastated. 

“We could do it together-” 

Bruce shook his head. “No Clark. This is my fight. You can help me, but you can’t always be there. You have a whole planet to protect, and Gotham needs more specialized attention. I won’t be gone forever. We’ll see each other again before you know it.” He cradled Clark’s face in his hands, and kissed him as softly as he dared. 

“I love you, Clark Kent. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. I’ll be back for this, for you,” he said. Clark smiled sadly at him. 

“I love you too, Bruce. Don’t make me wait too long, you know how impatient I get.” 

Finally Bruce smiled, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The next morning Bruce kissed Clark goodbye, and got on a plane headed east.

\----

Three Years Later

Batman stood on top of the roof of the Wayne Enterprises building in the heart of Gotham, watching as a red and blue blur made its way toward him. When the speed finally eased Superman appeared before him, floating several inches above the ground and with another bright red S painted across his chest. 

“I see Smallville stayed with you,” Bruce said, his modulated voice deeper than it should be. Clark let his feet touch the ground. Even with all the growing Bruce had done Clark still stood taller and broader than him, and probably always would. It was the nature of the beast, Bruce supposed. 

“Actually, it’s a Kryptonian symbol. Means hope,” he said, looking down at it. Bruce’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“I see I missed a thing or two,” he said. Clark shrugged.

“You did,” he said. Bruce swallowed at the indifference in Clark’s voice. He said he’d wait, but Bruce had been gone for years. 

Bruce pulled off the cowl, and looked up at Clark with brilliant blue eyes. They were aged eyes, eyes that had seen and done more than he had ever expected. Eyes that had seen the best and worst of people, and come out the other side a better man for it. That’s what they were now, men. No longer boys running around Smallville chasing a love that hadn’t quite matured yet. 

“I’m still in love with you, if you’re curious,” Bruce said. Clark’s lips twitched, just barely, and Bruce knew immediately that Clark was messing with him. 

“But if you’re not interested, I hear Lex Luthor’s single again,” Bruce said blithely, crossing his arms. Clark rolled his eyes, and allowed himself to smile. 

“Three years is a long time,” he said. 

“I can only say I’m sorry so many times,” Bruce protested. Clark raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“You haven’t said it yet.”

“Haven’t I? Could’ve sworn I did.” 

Clark looked decidedly unimpressed. 

“All right, fine, I’m sorry. Happy?” Bruce asked, putting more emotion into it than he’d originally meant to. Clark smiled, small but real. 

“Yes, very,” he said. He wrapped an arm around Bruce’s waist and pulled him close. 

Batman and Superman came together in a fantastic kiss on top of the Wayne Enterprises tower, and all was right in the world.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] Again I Go Unnoticed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424548) by [TKodami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/pseuds/TKodami)




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